Death of Unity - The Fulgrimian Heresy
by Tanner151
Summary: Ten thousand years have passed since Fulgrim's Heresy was defeated, and the threats facing the Imperium grow as the centuries grind onward. Xenos, witches, heretics and worse plague the Emperor's Realm, but they are but secondary concerns. In the Eye of Terror, the Traitor Legions prepare for their final crusade of vengeance. It is the 41st Millennium and there is only war.
1. History of the Heresy

**Death of Unity - The Fulgrimian Heresy**

 **History of the Heresy**

 **Pre-Heresy-**

In the late 30th Millennium the Emperor of Mankind united Terra, known in antiquity as Earth, through war and diplomacy and set His gaze upon the stars. To reclaim humanity's birthright, the Emperor created twenty "sons" called primarchs that would be the generals of His armies in the planned Great Crusade. They would be genetically, physically, and intellectually superior to any other being excluding Himself.

Before the Great Crusade could be launched, disaster struck. The Ruinous Powers, the foul evil beings that resided in the Immaterium and fed upon the chaos of the material plane, were fearful of the Emperor's plans. To disrupt these, the Dark Powers kidnapped and sent the twenty infant primarchs out across the galaxy for each to land and grow up on a human world, far away from their father and His guiding influence.

Without the primarchs the Emperor's plan to unite the galaxy under an Imperium based off science, logic and justice was threatened. But as He had done for millennia the Emperor adapted and created from the genome of each of his sons a Legion based off their genetic code. With twenty Legions of genetically and physically enhanced, highly trained warriors the Emperor embarked on His Great Crusade to unite Mankind and to find the scattered primarchs.

For over a century and a half the Imperium expanded and eventually the Master of Mankind discovered all of His sons. The first found was Horus and the last was Alpharius. With His unique and powerful progeny found, and their Legions returned to them, the Imperium rapidly expanded with thousands of Imperial expeditionary fleets and armies across the galaxy fighting the alien, purging the mutant, and reuniting the lost fragments of humanity that had been isolated since the beginning of Old Night.

In the early years of the 31st Millennium the Great Crusade was nearing an end. It was a time of legend, of hope; the Golden Age of Man was at its peak. In the Ullanor Crusade Imperial forces led by the Emperor Himself and several primarchs defeated the largest known concentration of Orks that had come into contact with the Imperium of Man at that time.

After the end of the Ullanor Campaign the Emperor held a massive celebration, forever remembered as the Triumph of Ullanor, that recognized all the accomplishments of the men and women that had fought, sacrificed and died to create the greatest empire ever forged. The world of Ullanor was transformed into a trophy-world of the Imperium, renamed Mundus Tropaeum on all galactic star charts.

The Triumph was attended by elements of fifteen Astartes Legions alongside eleven of the demigod primarchs. The Emperor Himself, at the conclusion of the Triumph, praised all those that had fought and died during the Crusade and declared that Horus, favoured and first found son, would be bestowed the title of Warmaster, supreme commander of all Imperial military forces in the Emperor's name.

Following this historical announcement came another of equal importance. To the shock and disbelief of many the Emperor stated that He would be returning to Terra to conduct a project for the benefit of all humanity but none other than this was given, much to the consternation of many.

 **Council of Nikaea-**

With Horus as Warmaster and the Great Crusade nearing its conclusion, the Imperium's future seemed bright and assured. However, disputes over the use of psykers were brought to a head shortly after Ullanor. Before the Emperor returned to Terra, He called a conclave on the distant world of Nikaea to resolve the matter once and for all before the division over the issue threatened the nascent empire.

The Council of Nikaea would be attended by several primarchs alongside other key Imperial commanders and leaders. One faction called for the disbandment of the Librarian corps in its entirety and the study of what many called sorcery. Spearheaded by Leman Russ, Primarch of the Space Wolves, the unspoken leader of this anti-psyker faction declared that all those with psyker abilities, particularly Magnus the Red and his Thousand Sons, should be prohibited from using their psychic powers and return the Librarians back to normal frontline duties.

Russ threw accusations at Magnus and his Legion, claiming they were delving into dangerous magicks and foul rituals that were damning them, which, Russ vehemently stated, would threaten the Imperium if it was allowed to continue. While Russ specifically targeted the XV, Primarch Corvus Corax of the Raven Guard vocalised his general distaste of psykers and how harmful they had been in history, discussing and describing hundreds of worlds his Legion had found either ruled by a ruthless psyker elite or destroyed in the aetheric fires of warp-energy.

As the council became more and more heated with violence nearly breaking out, several Space Marine Librarians approached the Emperor at this critical juncture, asking if they could speak. The Emperor granted them permission and the Astartes spoke logically and convincingly of how psykers were not evil in and of themselves, but instead education, discipline and training resulted in how they fared. Without the powers of psykers, the Imperium would be disarming itself of one of its greatest weapons, both offensive and defensive. The Astartes called that the Librarians remain, though they agreed to concede to more supervision and stricter reins on what could be researched and practised.

After several moments of deep thought the Master of Mankind agreed with this line of thought, calling it the Librarian Compromise. It would allow the Librarius to remain and that they would continue in their duty to serve and protect the Imperium. Though psykers would remain a valuable tool, the Emperor did censor the XV for its pursuit of forbidden and arcane knowledge. He claimed that the Thousand Sons pried too deeply into matters they understood little of and were ignorant of the inherent dangers. So while the use of psychic individuals and Astartes would continue, access to certain fields of knowledge would be stringently denied by Imperial Edict.

To the sons of Magnus, and especially the Crimson King himself, this was a great dishonour. The implication that they could no longer be trusted nor allowed to seek out any and all knowledge for the betterment of Mankind was detrimental to their morale and self-image. Magnus had lost allies and gained critics at Nikaea's end, inflaming the already severe distrust between many in the Imperium towards the scions of Prospero.

Although many within the upper hierarchy of the Imperium supported the Librarian Compromise, Corax was openly unhappy with the Emperor's Edict. The most vocal of the anti-psykers, the Ravenlord was persistent in his disagreement and was surprised to find his brother Mortarion, a fierce anti-psyker himself, supporting their father's judgment with little qualm. The Death Guard Primarch commented that his personal reservations paled when compared to the needs of the Imperium and the Emperor's wisdom. Seeing that he had few allies, the Deliverer subjected himself to the Emperor's will. Even Russ, who was not entirely happy with the Compromise, accepted it without question as it put many needed restrictions and strict overview on psykers, helping limit their threat to the Imperium while still reaping in their usefulness. His primary purpose of exposing and censuring the Thousand Sons worked, and the Wolf King believed from henceforth that Magnus would learn from his mistakes and embrace the more restricted guidelines of the Compromise.

Despite the hope he held for his Prosperian brother, Russ noted Magnus' poor reaction to the Edict and became wary. The Sixth Primarch dispatched many spies to monitor the Fifteenth Legion closely as they returned to their homeworld ashamed, angry, and simmering with discontent.

 **Fall of the Warmaster-**

On the world of Davin an uprising against lawful Imperial authorities occurred. Horus, upon hearing of this, ordered his 63rd Expeditionary Fleet to the rebellious world to expunge it of traitors and bring it back under Imperial rule. During the ensuing battle the Warmaster was gravely wounded by the rebel governor with a sword that bore a powerful contagion, a contagion so virulent it put Horus on his deathbed.

Later Imperial historians and Mechanicum Biologis tech-priests would note with hindsight that the contagion and weapon were of Nurgleite origin. Only the quick thinking of one of Horus's Mournival captains, Garviel Loken, ensured the survival of the Warmaster. Loken's suggestion of having the Warmaster be interred inside a stasis pod was likely the only thing that saved Horus. First Captain Abaddon quickly ordered that the Sixteenth Legion would journey towards Terra to have their gene-sire healed by the Emperor, for if anyone could heal Horus Lupercal, it would be the one who had created him.

With the Emperor forewarned of the Favoured Son's impending arrival He prepared to heal the stricken Warmaster. Such was the Emperor's worry for Horus' well-being that He called upon Mortarion to assist. The Death Lord's knowledge of poisons and toxins was second only to the Emperor. With Horus incapacitated, the Crusade was now leaderless. Before the Emperor could appoint a temporary replacement, further, more dire news reached Terra. First, the Space Wolves had attacked Prospero, burning the homeworld of the Thousand Sons to a cinder. Secondly, the Night Lords, led by their sadistic and disturbed primarch, raised the flag of rebellion and had laid waste to a dozen populated Imperial worlds, the death toll reaching billions.

The Emperor was disturbed at these events. He had ordered Russ and the Sixth Legion to arrest Magnus and bring him to Terra for questioning following the Crimson King's recent actions, notably the apparent psychic attack on Terra, and allegations of continued sorcerous activities on Prospero. The sanctioned extermination of the Thousand Sons had not been given, but had been carried out nonetheless. A miscommunication on such a scale was disastrous and would have to be investigated. Though of critical importance, the Burning of Prospero took second place as confirmation of Curze's recent actions reached the Throneworld.

With the Night Haunter and his sons having gone rogue, the Emperor commanded Dorn to bring the Eighth Primarch and his butchering progeny to justice. Dorn, as the Emperor's Praetorian, ordered five Legions to hunt down the VIII. To lead this Imperial Armada, Dorn chose Sanguinius. The Ninth Primarch, nicknamed the Angel, was chosen for his highly developed tactical and strategic acumen, excellent relations with many of his brothers, and shared Dorn's sentiments of Curze.

Sanguinius accepted the command and stated that their murderous brother would pay for his genocides. On that note, five Legions sought after Curze and eventually cornered him in the Bellanor System, a backwater in the Segmentum Tempestus. Here, the Angel declared, history would take place that would forever change the Imperium. Unfortunately, the Blood Angels Primarch did not realise how true those words would become.

 **Betrayal at Bellanor-**

The first to arrive in-system were the Blood Angels. The next were the Salamanders, fresh from victory against a Dark Eldar fleet, and the Emperor's Children. The Third Legion had arrived from their homeworld, departing immediately from Chemos when word reached them of Curze's actions. The tentative friendship between Curze and Fulgrim was known and raised questions whether or not the Third Legion would have the determination necessary to take part in the battle to come, but the Phoenician's visible fury at the Lord of Night erased any doubts as to Fulgrim's dedication in destroying the Night Lords. The martial World Eaters arrived a day later, delayed due to increasing warp storms that were beginning to wreak havoc with interstellar travel across the galaxy. The last of the Armada to arrive were the legionnaires of the Death Guard, humourless and dour since their primarch's abrupt departure to Terra.

As the Armada assembled over Bellanor IV, the world the Eighth Legion had fortified their forces upon; another fleet emerged from the warp to the surprise of many. Primarch Lorgar of the Word Bearers had arrived with fully half of the XVII in tow. With six Legions now assembled to throw their military might at the Night Lords, victory was assured though as of yet unattained. When the Imperial warships entered high-orbit, a war council was called and after much debate and planning a strategy was adopted.

Sanguinius, with the invaluable assistance and insight of his trusted brother Fulgrim, crafted an offensive that would break and crush the Night Lords within a day. The operation called for the Blood Angels and Salamanders to drop to the surface in their full strength, while veteran elements of the World Eaters and bulk of the Death Guard would assist them. After this first wave the remainder of the Armada would descend.

All agreed to the plan, and readied themselves to eradicate the sinful VIII. The strength of so many loyal Astartes might have seemed overwhelming but was deemed necessary as it would show to the galaxy what the Imperium did with traitors. It was to be a lesson that none would ever forget.

At the scheduled time, the Armada's forces launched their offensive. Blood Angel and World Eater drop-pods landed amidst Bellanor IV's capital, Rose City, suffering higher than expected casualties in their attempt to disrupt the Night Lords communication and supply network while the bulk of the IX, in conjunction with the XIV and XVIII, landed in wave after wave of dropships and bulk-landers. Within hours, near three hundred thousand Astartes had made planet-fall and were securing the outer sectors of the city. The Death Guard and Salamander elements were to protect the rear and flanks, while the World Eater and Blood Angels surged forward to decapitate the VIII command hierarchy.

After hours of harsh, bloody combat, a signal came from Fulgrim's _Pride of the Emperor_ : the second wave was inbound. A majority of the Death Guard and Salamander Legions began to withdraw to secure resupply and repair, and to allow the newly arrived Astartes a taste of combat and glory in the battle.

What these Astartes found at the landing zones was not relief nor allies, but rather base treachery and turncoats. The Death Guard loyalists were fired upon by the Word Bearers and their own traitorous brethren, led by First Captain Typhon, who from this day onward would be known as Typhon the Black. The Salamanders suffered the wrath of the Emperor's Children and the traitor World Eaters.

Within minutes, thousands had perished. The broken remnants of the two Loyal Legions withdrew into the city to join with the Blood Angels and loyal World Eaters. began to withdraw into the city itself, though this trapped them between the Night Lords, who were now unleashing their full might upon the loyalists, and the other traitors.

Sanguinius, realizing that they would not last long in the meat grinder that was Rose City, rallied and led the Throne-loyal forces to the capital's sole spaceport. The capture of Serenity Spaceport was bloody with thousands dead but in doing so ensured that thousands more would live. Anything and everything in the spaceport was used to evacuate the Imperial Astartes from the surface to the beleaguered warships in orbit, ranging from modern dropships to archaic mass cargo haulers.

The Bellanor Exodus, as it is called, lasted into the night. Traitor elements consistently harassed and interfered with the evacuation, forcing many brave warriors to sacrifice themselves for the majority to survive, attempting to delay the traitors for as long as possible. The most famous of these were the three hundred World Eaters led by Captain Ehrlen that held off their treacherous primarch and kin long enough for the last dropships to depart the planet.

While the massacre on the ground had been brutal and devastating, the void massacre was, if anything, even more destructive. Dozens of loyalist escort and capital ships were destroyed before a proper defence formation could be formed. The remainder positioned their warships above Rose City and took in any and all transports carrying warriors that held true to their oaths. After the last dropship, carrying Sanguinius and a mortally wounded Vulkan, boarded the Ninth Primarch's flagship the _Red Tear_ , Imperial forces broke their way through the besiegers and made way to the nearest Mandeville point and escaped into the warp, wounded and aching with loss.

As the bloodied Imperial fleet left and the Dropsite Massacre finally concluded, the traitors assembled for council over the blood-drenched world. Fulgrim was disappointed that any of the loyalists were able to escape his trap, but he was pleased with the final results nonetheless. The Ninth Legion had lost a third of its total force, escaping the most intact amongst the loyalists thanks in large part to its tactical positions in the early stages of the Massacre. The Death Guard lost all but six thousand Astartes, while their traitorous brethren lost pitifully few. The World Eaters had been purged of any that dare not follow Angron into rebellion, and the Salamanders numbered only fourteen thousand, barely a sixth of what the noble XVIII had arrived with to Bellanor.

It was at this council that Fulgrim announced that the Third Legion was no longer the Emperor's Children but now the Sons of Fulgrim, reborn from the ashes of old. It was also here that Lorgar, in a move to garner support for Fulgrim and to appeal to the many trillions of people unhappy with the Emperor and His Imperium, called for Fulgrim to be elevated to official leader of the rebellion. His rank was to be War Commander, a title that would echo through history as a herald of doom and despair.

This was to be a largely propaganda ploy, but was also done to give the traitors a semblance of a command structure, as well as set goals and objectives. Out of the Traitor Primarchs, only Fulgrim held widespread popularity in the Imperium and was arguably one of the better tacticians amongst his brothers, making him the perfect candidate for leading the Traitor Legions to Terra. His two staunchest supporters were Lorgar and Ferrus Manus, both committed to elevating Fulgrim to monarch of the galaxy-spanning empire once victory was achieved, though for different reasons.

 **The Heresy-**

As the fires of betrayal cooled on Bellanor, Fulgrim readied the traitor war machine. With Fulgrim now bearing the rank of War Commander as a symbol for the rebellion, countless billions flocked to the traitors' banner. The Phoenician's rebellion spread through the Imperium like a plague. Eventually two-fifths of the Imperium would join him, while a third of the Martian Mechanicum would break their oaths of allegiance to Terra following the assassination of Kelbor-Hal, the Fabricator General of Mars. These Traitor Adepts were led by Kelbor-Hal's strongest supporter, Adept Lukas Chrom, who blamed the assassination on the Imperium and its Mechanicum supporters.

Nearly every Imperial organisation, ranging from the Imperial Army to the Officio Assassinorum, experienced varying degrees of treachery within their ranks, causing incredible destabilisation to the Imperial government and armed forces in the early years of the civil war.

To ensure that the loyalists could not unify their forces and potentially stop the rebellion in its infancy, Fulgrim ordered the Word Bearers to Ultramar where the Iron Hands were already beginning to cripple Guilliman's Realm following the successful surprise attack over Calth. The White Scars were dispatched across the Imperium, wreaking havoc, crippling supply lines and killing billions, all in the name of the Dark Prince and the War Commander. The Alpha Legion was sent to intercept the Dark Angels and prevent them from joining forces with the other Loyal Legions. The Night Lords were to act as the vanguard to the main offensive which would be led by Fulgrim himself, with the World Eaters, Typhon's newly formed Black Legion and the remnants of the Thousand Sons in support.

After these initial deployments the War Commander began his drive towards Terra, but it would be years before he was ready to invade the Sol System. During those years, crucial and costly battles were fought, with victories and defeats for both sides. The Battle of the Abyss, the Calth Atrocity, the Night of Silent Knives, the Underground War, the Shadow War, the Arcurean Crusade, the Nightingale Ambush, Siege of the Perfect Fortress, the Desolation of Tallarn, the Purge of Calaxxes Prime, the Heavy Worlds Campaign, the Battle of Gharran, the Invasion of Deliverance, the Murder of Murdock, the Battle of Molech and many more occurred; leaving wounds in the Imperium that would take centuries to heal.

 **Siege of Terra-**

In the seventh year of his Heresy, Fulgrim deemed he was strong enough to finally invade the Sol System itself. Leading an armada comprised of elements from every Traitor Legion the traitors quickly captured many Imperial installations and outposts in the outer reaches of the star system and pressed inwards with unwavering vigour. The Arch-Betrayer ordered Magnus the Red, the Chosen of Tzeentch, to create a warp veil that would surround the Sol System that would disrupt all Imperial astropathic communication from Sol to the rest of the Imperium, blinding and muting the defenders of Terra.

Fulgrim ordered his massive fleets to neutralise Battlefleet Solar, centred on Terra and Luna. After thirty hard fought days of vicious void combat, this was achieved with over half of the Imperial ships destroyed or captured, with many of the remainder heavily damaged. The survivors would retreat to the Sol System's outer halo to enact emergency repairs and wait for an opportunity to return to the fight once more.

With Mars still embroiled in civil war between those adepts that sided with the War Commander and those that remained steadfast to their oaths to the Emperor, the full might of the Traitor Legions fell upon Luna and Terra. Terra's moon fell within days, as the traitors used their Assault Companies with great effect, breaking the back of Imperial defences there soon after landing.

On the surface of humanity's homeworld itself traitor forces landed via drop-pods adjacent to the two major spaceports near the Imperial Palace. Within hours the Lion's Gate and Eternity Wall Spaceports fell to the Arch-Traitor's forces and with those in hand the bulk of the Traitor Legions were able to land on the surface to begin the Siege of the Imperial Palace.

Directed by Ferrus Manus, Primarch of the Iron Hands, the traitor armies began forcing their way inside the Palace. Every block of stone, every stairwell, every hallway was fought with an unbreakable willpower, neither side relenting and the loyalists only withdrawing when defeat was inevitable, falling back to another predetermined point of resistance that would cost the traitors dear to overcome.

The Satumine Gate fell to the rebels on the twenty-third day of the siege. As the battle continued, Fulgrim became frustrated by slow progress, calling upon more and more daemonic assistance to break through stubborn Imperial defence. The daemons, led by the Bloodthirster Ka'Bandha, swarmed loyalist lines causing the Ultimate Gate to fall on the fifty-seventh day. Despite these defeats, hope came to Terra in the form of the Raven Guard. The Nineteenth Legion had stealthily arrived over the Throneworld and deposited its Astartes cargo before joining in the continuous void war over the Cradle of Mankind. Corax and his veteran sons would enter the Palace while the majority of his Legion fought the traitors across the globe, attempting to protect the populace from the cruel pleasure-seeking killers of the White Scars and to harass rebel supply lines.

With the two outer gates secured the traitors made their way to the final gateway that would lead to the Inner Palace. The Eternity Gate was the last bastion holding back the traitors and the loyalists knew it. They fought with skill and valour that would be remembered for generations to come, even ten thousand years later.

The Iron Hands used their forbidden technologies and blasphemous creations to create cracks in the Eternity Gate. For weeks this continued, destroying the Gate piecemeal until on the ninety-third day of the siege a large crevice was created, allowing the traitor hordes to rush the gap in Imperial defences. Instead of swarming through and overwhelming the defenders, the traitors instead were stalled. They were met by three primarchs: Horus, Perturabo and Corax with their legionnaires in support. The three primarchs, with the assistance of their valiant sons, would hold the gap for hours, without faltering, killing traitor legionnaire after traitor legionnaire.

Eventually Bloodthirster Ka'Bandha, wishing to kill such a worthy foe and claim his skull for the Blood God, charged Horus Lupercal. After an intense battle that drew the eye of all present, the Warmaster was able to defeat the powerful daemon by breaking its spine over an armoured knee. With the daemon banished back to the warp, the traitor Astartes retreated and the hole in the Eternity Gate was bulldozed shut.

Shortly after Manus' report to Fulgrim that the assault on the Eternity Gate had failed, the Crimson King informed the War Commander that he had looked beyond the veil covering the Sol System and saw that the Ultramarines, Space Wolves, Dark Angels and Blood Angels Legions had broken through the Traitor Legions' lines; they were only days away from Terra. The Cyclops warned that while the veil around the Sol System interfered with Imperial communications, it would not stop the Imperial ships from arriving and tipping the scales of battle drastically in favour of the Emperor. The Gorgon informed the War Commander that it would be another week, if not longer, before the Eternity Gate could be forced open once again. A week the traitors did not have.

Fulgrim was furious. His gambit had failed, and if he remained his armies would be destroyed, but if he fled the momentum he had gained would be wasted away and his Heresy would be broken. Not all was lost however. The Twentieth Legion's elusive and secretive primarch was summoned by Fulgrim for a daring operation. On the ninety-fifth day of the Siege, the Inner Palace's advanced shielding that protected it from a variety of threats suffered a cataclysmic system's failure. With no shield to prevent teleportation the War Commander, followed by his Phoenix Guard and other veteran elite, teleported inside the Inner Palace and, having bypassed the bulk of the loyalists and the Eternity Gate, made their way to the Throne Room to confront the Emperor.

 **The Throne Room-**

As the Arch-Traitor and his foul ilk approached the Throne Room, they were blocked by the Emperor's Custodes, Imperial Fist Huscarls and Rogal Dorn. The Emperor's Praetorian had been in the Throne Room helping orchestrate the planet-wide defensive war and was the last line of defence protecting his father. It was War Commander versus Praetorian, the Phoenician versus the Vigilant, brother versus brother; it was a battle that would echo through the ages.

Fulgrim at first tried to win Dorn to his side but the Lord of the Seventh Legion was neither weak-willed nor gullible to the foul lies of the Ruinous Powers. His devotion and loyalty to the Emperor was too great for the temptations of Chaos. Dorn and Fulgrim would fight a brief but destructive battle until the Imperial Fists Primarch had injured but not killed his brother. Fulgrim had grown powerful in his role as Champion of the Primordial Annihilator. Throughout his seven years of rebellion he had grown stronger; Dorn on the other hand was weak in comparison. The Unyielding One was killed by the War Commander's _Fireblade_. The Emperor arrived in time to see His Seventh Son, his noble, dutiful Rogal, be thrown onto the ground, dead and lifeless before His very eyes.

Seeing Dorn die before Him, the Emperor's face became one filled of anger, sorrow and steeled resolve. The Emperor and the Arch-Betrayer would clash in a titanic battle of both sword and mind. In the end the Emperor was forced to use His psychic might to destroy not only the body but the soul of Fulgrim as well, to prevent the Arch-Traitor from being brought back to life by the Chaos Gods. While the Emperor emerged victorious it was not without cost, He had been mortally wounded by Fulgrim and lay dying.

As the Emperor lay between His dead sons, the surviving Astartes of the War Commander's strike team were dismayed but quickly retrieved their gene-sire, intent on returning to the _Pride of Chemos_. Warmaster Horus, Corax, and Perturabo, along with their bodyguards, reached the gates of the Throne Room and were shocked by what they saw before them. Acting quickly, they recovered the bloodied corpse of Dorn and the crippled body of the Emperor, intent on putting their father upon the life-preserving Golden Throne per His instructions.

Following Fulgrim's death the resolve of the Traitor Legions broke. Their rebellion had failed and the loyalists fought with renewed vigour and fortitude, as once the War Commander died the warp interference around the Sol System dissipated, allowing the loyalists to detect that reinforcements were soon to arrive. The Traitor Legions gathered up all their surviving Space Marines, as well as many Traitor Army and Dark Mechanicum forces as their warships' holds could carry and fled the Sol System, hounded by Imperial ships until the defeated rebels entered the warp. The Imperium had defeated its foes and won the Fulgrimian Heresy, but it was at best a pyrrhic victory.

As the traitors broke and ran, Horus Lupercal, Perturabo, Corvus Corax, Captain-General Amon Tauromachian of the Legio Custodes, Fabricator General Kane of the Adeptus Mechanicus, along with other crucial Imperial leaders, listened to the final words and instructions of the Emperor of Mankind before He would be interred onto the Golden Throne for the next ten millennia.

The Emperor denounced the Traitor Legions, calling them forever tainted and ordered that the Imperium be purged of them and for the borders of the Imperium to be restored. He issued several other declarations before the Golden Throne made Him physically mute and begun His eternal slumber. Despite the crippling of His body the Emperor's mind was strong. His psychic powers would forever remain vigilant, protecting the Imperium of Mankind from the Dark Gods of the warp as best as He was able.

 **Shattered Dreams-**

Despite Fulgrim's Heresy having been defeated, the Traitor Legions were still very much a threat and held vast swathes of the Imperium. With the interment of the Emperor onto the Golden Throne, the Loyalist Primarchs were the individuals that had to reorganise the Imperium and reclaim all that had been lost.

For a year the wounded Imperial military recovered, reassembled and readied themselves for the inevitable retaliation against the traitor-held domains. Shortly after the first anniversary of the rebellion's conclusion the Great Scouring began. Led by the nine surviving primarchs, with Warmaster Horus at their head, this galactic-spanning counter-attack quickly reclaimed much of the territory and would spend the next seven years beating back the Traitor Legions and restoring the Imperium's pre-Heresy borders.

In the aftermath of Fulgrim's death, several of the Traitor Primarchs remained loosely allied against the resurgent Imperium. United in a loose confederation, these primarchs formed the Syndicate Chaotica, an alliance that wished to preserve the territories conquered by them. And for four years it did so, slowing Imperial progress to a crawl in dozens of sectors. But following Guilliman's killing of Alpharius on the world of Eskrador with assistance from the Grey Knights, the Syndicate began to fracture at its seams.

After their primarch's death the Alpha Legion withdrew from the unholy alliance and proceeded to splinter itself into hundreds of autonomous warband-cells to scatter far and wide across the galaxy, giving the Imperium trouble for millennia on end. Following the departure of the XX, the other three members dissolved the Syndicate to follow their own paths. The Word Bearers left for Colchis, stripping their homeworld bare of recruits, weapons and resources. They would leave for the Eye of Terror to find themselves a new homeworld, never to return to their old one. The Iron Hands withdrew to their domain centred on Medusa, proclaimed as the Ferrum Dominion by the Gorgon, and fought to the bitter end of the Scouring until their world was destroyed by the Iron Warriors Legion. This would be the First Iron War between Manus' and Perturabo's gene-lines, but certainly not the last. The Night Lords, unique among the traitors, remained a cohesive, united force for over a century following the Scouring. Despite this continued perseverance, the VIII's base of operations, Tsagualsa, would be assaulted and destroyed by the Imperium in the second century of the thirty-first millennium. This defeat forced the Night Haunter and his progeny to relocate to another world, far from the Emperor's vengeful armies.

After the Great Scouring ended, the Imperium began a multitude of reforms to better adjust itself to the reality it found itself in. The greatest of these, the Codex Astartes, penned primarily by Guilliman, though with significant contributions by several of the other primarchs including Horus, Sanguinius and Perturabo, dismantled the Legiones Astartes and in their place the Adeptus Astartes was born. The Legions were no more; instead smaller-sized units called Chapters replaced them. The Astartes would no longer be the principal military force of the Imperium as this would be inherited by the newly-created Imperial Guard. Instead, the five thousand Astartes-strong Space Marine Chapters would act as a quick reaction force, elite shock troops and the speartip of Mankind's armed forces.

Another of the major changes made was the creation of the Iron Cages; these were the brainchild of Perturabo. The Iron Cages were extensive fortifications created around the borders of warp storms, specifically the Fracture, the Maelstrom and the Eye of Terror as well as more. Manned by Astartes Chapters as well as countless Guardsmen, these Cages represented the first line of defence against Chaos invasions and have weathered some of the bloodiest fighting in Imperial records. Not only were these Cages built by both Perturabo and Dorn's gene-lines, working together as well as they did during the fortification of Terra, but nearly half of the Chapters assigned to the Cages and the star systems that border Chaos domains are Successor Chapters of the Fourth and Seventh Legions.

 **Dark Millennium-**

It is now ten thousand years after the Fulgrimian Heresy and the Imperium finds itself in dire straits. While the third Tyranid invasion armada, Hive Fleet Leviathan, has been successfully contained since late-998.M41, this large quarantine requires hundreds of billions of soldiers, tens of thousands of ships, and over two hundred Astartes Chapters to keep the Tyranids from breaking through into the heart of the Emperor's Domain. Despite the Tyranids being quarantined, the amount of resources and soldiers put into this continued containment is sorely needed elsewhere as the millennium comes to a close and more threats continue to appear.

To add to this growing list of threats faced by the Imperium, various Ork empires, particularly Warlord Snagrod's Charadon and the vast Waaagh! of Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka, are becoming bolder as the Imperium's vast military might has been stretched thin in recent centuries, leaving significant portions of Imperial space vulnerable to invasion, all of which have become tempting targets to many Ork warlords. Across the galaxy the Necrons have awoken on their Tomb Worlds from their long slumber and seek to eradicate all life in the galaxy in their quest for dominance. On the Eastern Fringe, the young, virulent, and technologically advanced Tau Empire continues to spread at a methodical rate, threatening scores of border worlds and weakening the Iron Cage around the Maelstrom, allowing traitor forces within to raid and reave over a hundred worlds. To add to the destruction and terror sweeping the galaxy, the Dark Eldar in 999.M41 have launched thousands of attacks and raids on hundreds of worlds, enslaving and pillaging. Although a major threat, the Dark Eldar are among the least of the Imperium's worries.

The Traitor Legions, broken but not destroyed during the Heresy and the centuries since, had retreated to the Eye of Terror from which they would launch continuous raids and invasions into the Imperium. The most infamous and devastating of these assaults have been the Vengeance Crusades led by the Champion of Chaos Undivided, the Heir of Fulgrim and a former lord commander of the Third Legion. His name echoes through the warp, whispered by daemons and prophets alike: War Commander Tyberius Sakaeron, commonly called Sakaeron the Deceiver.

Sakaeron has already launched ten Vengeance Crusades, each more devastating than the last. As the closing years of the 41st Millennium fast approach, the Forces of Chaos are once again ready to invade the Imperium in numbers not seen since the Fulgrimian Heresy. The enemies of the Imperium are many and all have been encroaching on it, weakening it century after century. If the Chaos Legions, led by Sakaeron and his Sons of Fulgrim, launch their Eleventh Vengeance Crusade and break through the Iron Cage centred on Cadia then it is likely to reach the Segmentum Solar and a Second Battle of Terra might very well spell the end of the Imperium of Man.


	2. Dark Angels

**Dark Angels – Secrets and Half-truths**

 _"The galaxy is burning. Fulgrim's rebellion spreads like a fire amongst the stars. My knights, my warriors, my sons, we stand on a precipice. Many in the Imperium will join the War Commander out of shared beliefs, hatred of the Emperor, or simply out of fear. We should not hate them, but nor should we pity them. They made their decision, and we make ours. Eight of my brothers turned their back on the Emperor, but we will not. We are loyal, because loyalty is its own reward. We leave here to fight in the greatest war the Imperium has ever faced. Prepare yourself, Dark Angels, for we have traitors' blood to spill."_

-Primarch Lion El'Jonson, shortly before the First Legion departed from the Shield Worlds

 **Origins-**

When the Great Crusade began in late M31, many of the Emperor's vanguard fleets were commanded by Astartes of the First Legion. These grey-armoured warriors were known for their dedication to Mankind's Manifest Destiny and unshakeable belief in the Emperor. In those early years the amount of worlds brought into compliance by the First Legion was amongst the highest across all twenty Legions.

But the First were not only warring across the galaxy, they were also fervently searching for their gene-sire, as was every Legion. But years turned into decades and decades neared a century and the First Primarch had not been found. The First Legion saw itself become eclipsed by other Legions that had found their primogenitors, such as the Luna Wolves, Space Wolves, Imperial Fists and the Emperor's Children, among others. These brewed feelings of jealousy and desperation amongst the First, though they were ashamed to admit such weaknesses existed among their ranks.

Just as the morale of the First was beginning to decline as the meat-grinder of the Great Crusade continued, word reached their scattered fleets of something that would forever change them: their father had been found. When the twenty primarchs were thrown across the galaxy through the warp, the life-capsule of the First Primarch had landed upon Caliban, a death world to the galactic north in the Segmentum Obscurus. It was here that the First Primarch would be named, raised and eventually rule.

Unlike the majority of his brothers, the First Primarch was not raised by humans nor surrounded by them in his early years. Instead, the life-capsule that contained the First Primarch landed deep in the Calibanite jungles, a guaranteed death sentence for any that were not created by the Master of Mankind. Instead of dying, this primarch not only endured but bested all those that threatened him in those predator-riven forests.

Nearly a decade after his arrival, the First Primarch eventually came into contact with other humans. These humans were adorned in armour and carrying swords and guns as they hunted a great beast. This hunting party nearly killed the Emperor's son were it not for the convincing words of the party's leader. The leader, a renowned and respected knight within their organisation named Luther, saw something in the forest green eyes of the young man before him; an aura of strength and sense of duty exhumed from the forest dweller. He felt that killing such a being as the one that stood before him would have been a mistake, a tragedy even; Luther instead vouched for the young man and formally adopted him, giving him the name Lion El'Jonson, which meant 'The Lion, the Son of the Forest' in an ancient dialect of Caliban.

 _The foliage was thick as knights of The Order cut their way through. The sounds of the forest were all around them, causing them to be on guard for any predators that might lurk among the thick grass or high, looming trees._

 _Master of the Order Sar Luther rode his armoured warhorse, eyes peeled and ears trained for any threat. The knights and men-at-arms under his command moved forward, tracking the path the beast had made. They had been sent to kill the beast that had plagued three villages for months, killing dozens of inhabitants._

 _"My lord, come look at this," spoke his first scout. Dismounting, Luther moved to him. "Look here, my lord."_

 _Crouching down, Luther noticed a deep crimson with swirls of violet and yellow. Beast blood. And they had not wounded it. Something else was out here._

 _"What are we to do?"_

 _"Follow the trail of blood. We need to confirm its death before we head back."_

 _"Aye."_

 _The knights set off, heading deeper and deeper into the woods, wary and with fists clenched over sword pommels. This was farther than many had ever been. It was probably farther than Luther had ever been. Further and further they went, the blood trail becoming more obvious, the path becoming clearer with every step._

 _After a moment, they found the beast, or rather its corpse. It lay in a pile of its own blood, but it did not look like it had been killed by predators or other great beasts. Rather, its wounds looked similar to those caused by a spear._

 _The grass nearby rustled and all aimed their weapons there, rifles readied and swords drawn. More rustling and the strangest thing emerged: a young man. No, not a man, thought Luther. Something else. His body was dirty and had multitude of claw marks across his bare chest that were already healing. His physique was hardened and exemplary. His hair was blond and long, tangled with twigs and leaves. His eyes were a deep forest green and they stared at the group without fear._

 _"My lord, your orders?"_

 _Luther stared into those eyes and they stared back unflinchingly._

 _"My lord, should we fire?!"_

 _"No. We will take him with us."_

 _Several knights turned to look at him in surprise. "But he can't be human; he's been out here by himself, alone in the deep woods. It is impossible for humans to survive out here."_

 _"No, not impossible, not for him," spoke Luther. The man wasn't human, or at least not like he and his men. He was… special, more powerful at the very least. That could be useful to The Order._

 _Luther rode his horse to the dishevelled man, who readied his bloodied spear but Luther held his hands up in peace. The stranger seemed to understand and dropped his stance. Holding out his hand, Luther spoke to him._

 _"Come, stranger." He did not move. Hmm, 'stranger' was not exactly a name, but he most likely did not have one. Thinking quickly, Luther came up with a name from an ancient dialect he had read in the Aldurukh's oldest libraries._

 _"Come, Lion El'Jonson."_

 _The newly named man walked towards Luther and took the offered hand._

Luther adopted Lion El'Jonson and took the young man back to his organisation, an institution of knights simply named 'The Order'. It was here where the Lion learned language, culture, military tactics, combat techniques and much more, impressing the masters of The Order. Within a few short years the Lion had gone from an apprentice to Supreme Grand Master and upon taking the mantle of command the Lion ordered that the world of Caliban would be united and that the great beasts that had plagued the planet for thousands of years would be made extinct.

To help the Lion's vision come true, Luther became his right-hand man and worked tirelessly, assisting with the unification of the dozens of other knightly orders under a single banner, acting as the diplomat and wise counsellor. Within a decade Caliban neared unification and the great beasts were nearing their final days. However, there was a threat to the Lion's and Luther's plans. An order of unsatisfied warriors, called the Knights of Lupus, resisted the Lion's efforts of unification and attempted to stop the eradication of the great beasts.

The Knights of Lupus withdrew to their fortress, supposedly to defy the Lion. In response, the Lion, leading his vast army of knights and men-at-arms, laid siege and quickly breached the Knights of Lupus' primary fortress and proceeded to find its lord, Lord Sartana. Instead, The Order quickly found what the Lupus Knights had been protecting so fervently: dozens of great beasts locked in cages. The Knights, who feared what would happen once the great beasts were exterminated, wished to maintain the status quo and their position in Calibanite society.

Lord Sartana, hoping to claim victory, no matter how distasteful, unleashed the great beasts to butcher The Order's soldiery. What followed was cruel bloodshed, a slaughter that was only stopped by the heroics of the Lion himself who slew many of the beasts and Sartana. With the death of their lord, the Knights of Lupus lost the will to fight. All were slaughtered and their fortress set aflame.

While the victorious warriors of The Order began their long trek back to their fortress of Aldurukh, wagons laden with spoils of war plundered from the Lupus' fortress before it had been set ablaze, there was little joy in Luther. He had been side-lined in the campaign and felt that the Lion had reaped all the glory. This is where the first seeds of doubt and jealousy where planted in Sar Luther; the first, but certainly not the last.

 _Extracting his sword from the impaled corpse of a Knight of Lupus, Luther moved out from the broken front gate towards the enemy knights' fortress. His men saluted and bowed as he made his way inwards._

 _Passing hundreds of dead men and moving through tight, hard-angled pathways that were designed to slow and bottleneck an invading force, Luther arrived to the main courtyard and the scene before him made him raise his hand to block the smell._

 _Before him lay hundreds of knights and men-at-arms, from both sides, but the spectacle that drew the eye of all present were dozens of great beasts, all dead, and the man that stood amidst their corpses._

 _The Lion's sword was bloody, his clothes and armour tattered and darkened with drying blood. Beside him lay the decapitated head of Lord Sartana, mouth open and dead glazed eyes staring up at his killer. The Supreme Grand Master of The Order looked out around him, gazing at his soldiers, nodding to some. When his foster son's eyes fell upon him, Luther expected to be motioned forward to share in the glory, but the Lion's gaze did not linger and left to the next._

 _Luther stood frozen to the spot. The nerve! While his son had been reaping glory in the courtyard, Luther had occupied the bulk of the Lupus Knights at their front gate, allowing the Lion and his elite to clamber over the walls and force the Lupus soldiery to fight a two-front battle. Luther contributed just as much to this victory as did his son, yet the Lion did not even acknowledge it. He clicked his teeth in anger and took several deep breaths to calm himself._

 _The Lion raised his sword. "The Knights of Lupus are dead and so are their archaic ways. We have won. Victory!"_

 _The assembled hundreds of knights, men-at-arms, squires and more began to cheer. "Victory! Victory! Victory!" Luther added his own voice to it, pumping his fist into the air, but it lacked the energy those that surrounded him roared with. The cheer began to change._

 _"Lion!" It started out among only a few, noticeably amongst the young squires, but was taken up swiftly by those near them and it spread like a fire. "Lion! Lion! Lion!"_

 _Luther saw his son's face craft a smile and his green eyes seemed to shine with the attention. Frowning, Luther lowered his hand, turned, and walked back to his horse. He had not seen satisfaction in those eyes, not the gleam of victory but rather of unquenchable ambition, and it sickened Luther. The Order was created to serve and protect Caliban but it had now become apparent to him that The Order would never be that way again. Now, it was to serve and obey the Lion and the Lion alone._

 _It was a disturbing realisation._

It was soon after the victory over the Knights of Lupus and the subsequent unification of Caliban under the Lion's rule that fiery stars fell to the surface. These were the dropships of a First Legion recon fleet and to their surprise and joy; they had found their primarch at last. Many months would pass until the Emperor arrived to meet His son.

The Lion knew at once that the grand being before him was his father and swore fealty to him without question. In return, the Emperor made the Lion the Imperial Lord of Caliban and gifted His son with the Legion based off his genome. The entirety of the First Legion met their father in the cleared fields before Aldurukh and listened with rapt attention as command passed from the Emperor to the Lion. The Lion, at the conclusion of the ceremony, renamed the First Legion the Dark Angels after an old Calibanite myth.

To increase the size of his Legion, the Lion ordered all within The Order to undergo physical, psychological and genetic testing to determine their compatibility with augmentation to transhuman. Owing to the strict regimen imposed by the Lion on The Order's younger knights, a majority were selected to become Astartes. Many, however, were too old to receive the gene-seed but were able to substantially modify and enhance their bodies to still become legionnaires, albeit only as half-Astartes. Sar Luther, alongside the bulk of the Order's senior leadership, undertook the transformation and took up offices of command in the Legion. Luther would remain the Lion's second-in-command though both began to become noticeably distant of the other.

 **The Great Crusade-**

United with their primarch and seeing a significant bolster of legionnaire recruits, the Dark Angels were eager to return to the Great Crusade. Led by their primarch, the First Legion brought several worlds into compliance quickly, early on showing the Lion's legendary skill as a tactician and strategist. All seemed well with the Dark Angels. That was until Sarosh.

The world of Sarosh was willing to join the Imperium, but was lethargic in its attempts at Imperial compliance, citing a cumbersome bureaucratic system. The Lion decided to intervene and hasten the negotiations as the world possessed relatively advanced technology and was rich in natural resources.

The delegation from the planet came aboard the Lion's flagship, the _Invincible Reaso_ n, and negotiations were proceeding smoothly. However, it was all a treacherous ploy. The Saroshi had no intention of joining the Imperium and used the conference with the primarch to enact an assassination attempt and deal the Imperium a devastating blow.

The shuttle of the Saroshi delegates carried an atomic warhead and would have been detonated if not for the actions of several Space Marines who prevented the Saroshi from carrying out their assassination attempt. The Lion slew the entire delegation and proceeded to invade and conquer Sarosh, an invasion which saw the world's population annihilated in its entirety. The world would later be resettled and renamed by Imperial colonists.

Curiously, shortly after the campaign the Lion dispatched several hundred Dark Angels back to Caliban. The official statement to explain this was that these Astartes were to ensure the successful recruitment and training of the many thousands of incoming initiates and to guarantee that the First Legion would grow at a steady and continuous rate. While the majority were frontline legionnaires, several were high ranking officers, notably Luther himself. It is postulated that this is where Luther's anger and jealousy established deep roots within him and would eventually set him down the dark path of damnation.

In the decades following the Sarosh Incident the Dark Angels brought thousands of worlds into the Imperium, either through warfare or diplomatic means. The Lion won wars that were predicted to take years or decades in weeks or months, showing his brilliance in warfare. Many whispered that the Lion was attempting to curry favour with the Emperor, as he felt that he should be included amongst the favoured sons such as Horus, Sanguinius, Dorn and Fulgrim. Such rumours were suppressed, but the quick and thorough reaction made some question whether or not the Lion truly felt this way.

 **The Heresy-**

The Dark Angels were unable to participate in the monumental Ullanor Crusade as they were already preoccupied with other campaigns, but did send representatives to the subsequent Triumph. It was here that the Emperor announced his return to Terra and that Horus would become Warmaster of the Imperium.

When news of his brother's ascension reached the Lion's ears the First Primarch retired to his chambers for a day and night. The following morning he returned to his flagship's command bridge, sent a message of curt congratulations to his brother, and announced to his many fleets that the Dark Angels would continue their advancement of the Great Crusade and that the First Legion would not rest in bringing worlds to compliance until all worlds in the galaxy belonged to the Imperium of Man. Following this proclamation, the Dark Angels pushed the borders of the Imperium ever further out, bringing in hundreds of star systems and rapidly destroying over a score human and xenos empires.

Years later, as the Dark Angels were prosecuting a campaign against the Gordian League-led Shield Worlds; word reached them of the Warmaster's wounding on Davin, the Burning of Prospero, the Night Lords having become renegades and the Emperor sanctioning the elimination of the Eighth Legion. As further information from the Imperium reached them in the following months it became clear to the First Legion that something had gone horribly wrong in the pursuit of Curze. Bellanor did not turn into the quick eradication of the Night Lords; instead it became a massacre that saw nearly two hundred thousand loyal Astartes killed by the hands of traitors.

When news reached the Lion that Fulgrim had orchestrated the Dropsite Massacre and now led the traitors as their War Commander his infamous temper soared hot before it turned into a clinical cold fury. The Lion was determined to join up with loyalists forces as soon as possible but dare not leave the Shield Worlds unconquered in his rear, as they could prove troublesome.

This forced the Lion to remain for a year defeating the Gordian League and annexing the Shield Worlds for the Imperium, all the time receiving astropathic messages and communiques of the large-scale civil war spreading throughout the Emperor's Domain. With the Shield Worlds now taken care of, the Lion assembled his Legion to travel to Terra to bolster the Loyal Legions already stationed there.

Fulgrim, having been informed of the Dark Angels imminent return by a vast network of spies and assistance from his dark patrons, ordered the bulk of the Alpha Legion to intercept and delay the Dark Angels for as long as possible. The Dark Angels and Alpha Legion would clash in the Arcurean Sector and for the next four years fight a war of cat-and-mouse, each side hurting but not crippling the other. Following the decisive Battle of Ghendall, which saw the Dark Angels triumph, the Alpha Legion was forced to withdraw with heavy casualties. Despite having claimed victory, the Dark Angels were battered, bloodied, and running low on critical supplies.

Forced to delay his journey to Terra, the Lion chose the Venyr System to resupply in. Venyr remained loyal to the Throne as the tendrils of rebellion spread and prior to the Heresy had been a large well-stocked supply depot for Crusade expeditionary fleets throughout the local sector, and sported an extensive orbital dry dock infrastructure. It was here that he would meet up with the Blood Angels, recently arrived from their own campaigns against the traitors. As both Legions began to resupply, the primarchs decided to travel to Terra together to better reinforce the Throneworld.

 _Dreams came to him in his sleep. They were rare, but all were full of dread and despair. He was in a forest, one he recognised as the location his pod had landed. All around him creatures of shadow moved towards him, but he could not decipher their intent. Were they to attack or assist? He reached for his sword and found that it was not there, nor was his armour or other weapons._

 _He was naked, younger, his body dirty and hair tangled. He heard a voice, it was familiar. Moving towards it he saw Luther adorned in his armour and weapons, surrounded by Zahariel and Astelan with angels of darkness hovering over them all, their wings were pale bone and their eyes arterial red._

 _"We are free. We are autonomous. We are Caliban. We are free. We are autonomous. We are Caliban. We are free, we are free, we are free." They all spoke in concert, but Luther was the loudest. They did not see him. Their mantra of dissension continued._

 _"Luther, Zahariel, Astelan, what is the meaning of this?" he demanded as he strode to them. The two true Astartes did not turn, their mouths still speaking the traitorous words, but the Regent of Caliban did. He looked at the Lion. With a raised hand he froze the primarch in place and walked towards him._

 _Luther gripped the Lion's jaw and looked into his eyes. Tutting, the Regent stood back and drew his sword. "Such wasted potential, Lion. You could have been something great in the new order. The strands of fate have shown me some of what you could have become. In one fate you are the epitome of Change and Secrets, in another a Bringer of Death and Rebirth. In two you led the great rebellion, one with me by your side and another where I was disillusioned into continued loyalty to the False Emperor. In others you die by my blade or vice versa. Our history is not set in stone, but the foundation is laid, it merely only has to be carved."_

 _The Lion tried to yell at these false accusations, but his mouth was gone, his tongue unmoving as if holding something within. Luther raised his sword. "I am the Saviour of Caliban, even if I have to be its destroyer."_

 _The sword came down and he awoke in his chamber aboard the_ Invincible Reason _. A notification alarm was bleeping. The Lion tried to remember his dream but only caught segments that made little sense and quickly faded from him. Even with a primarch's eidetic memory, dreams were sometimes wind._

 _Pushing the alarm's rune, a pict-screen of the bridge turned on before him._

 _"Forgive me, my lord, but you are needed on the bridge."_

 _"Acknowledged, Captain Stenius, I will be there momentarily. Why was I awoken?" inquired the Lion._

 _"My lord, your brother Sanguinius and his Blood Angels emerged from the warp thirteen minutes ago and the Angel wants to speak with you."_

 _The Lion paused. The Angel, his brother, was here? With their Legions combined, they could drastically reinforce Terra._

 _He rose from his bed and began to don on his armour. "I am on my way."_

Before the combined armada of First and Ninth Legion warships could depart, a lighting fast attack by the traitorous Astartes of the White Scars, led by their demented Jaghatai Khan, occurred. The White Scars, known for their incredibly swift ships and daring strikes, were able to warp in-system at dangerous proximity to Venyr Prime and cut their way through the two Angel Legions' fleets, destroying scores of ships outright and damaging hundreds more. With a single pass the Fifth Legion had broken the back of the two Legions. The Scars would quickly depart, leaving the loyalists to assess the damage and lick their wounds.

Both primarchs agreed that to depart for Terra with half their fleets damaged, many unable to enter the warp in their current state, would present them as easy targets. Both Angel primarchs agreed to stay in Venyr to repair and resupply. Within a year they were ready to leave and joined the other Loyalist Legions heading to Terra where the climatic Siege of Terra was taking place.

Despite the quick speed of Imperial reinforcements, they were too late. The Emperor, mortally wounded, was interred onto the Golden Throne, Dorn was dead by Fulgrim's hands, and much of Terra had been razed by the Traitor Legions and their daemon hordes. Horus became the de facto leader of the Imperium following the Siege and readied the loyalist forces to retake all that had been lost.

While the Imperium readied its vast military for the eventual counter-attack, the Lion wished to retire to Caliban, desperate to receive fresh Astartes replacements as the First Legion's numbers were just over half of their pre-Heresy number. Before he could make way to his homeworld, a small strike cruiser named the Bastion of Solace joined with the First Primarch's primary fleet. On board was a small contingent of Dark Angels led by the mysterious Lord Cypher.

 _Cypher waited patiently, hands clasped in front of him, his white robe covering the black armour beneath. Before him was the primarch, flanked by Chief Librarian Elikas, Seneschal Corswain, Captain Alajos of the Ninth Order, the six Wing Commanders, with other high-ranking captains standing in the back. The silence since Cypher finished speaking lingered uncomfortably, the listeners digesting what they had heard, disbelieving aspects of it, if not all._

 _"Why did you wait so long?" demanded Holguin, Commander of the Deathwing, visibly seething. "You should have brought this to our lord's attention years ago."_

 _"There was no chance to leave until recently. I had to pretend obedience and loyalty to Luther, but I began planning my escape from his watchful eyes."_

 _"How do we know you are not the traitor, and Luther loyal. This could be a ploy by the traitors to sow dissent in the First Legion," spoke Elikas, his staff of office ready to be used to kill Cypher if the primarch willed it._

 _"I have only my word and what data-logs I could bring with me. Luther has been paranoid of late, and his spies are everywhere on Caliban."_

 _"You brought a twenty-seven legionnaires with you. Who are they?" queried Corswain._

 _"Others like me who remained true to our oaths to the primarch and the Emperor. They are loyal, you have my word."_

 _"We will see, Cypher, we will see," snarled Farith Redloss, Commander of the Dreadwing._

 _"While we stand here arguing, the Independents are readying to make their treachery known to the Imperium at large. It will tarnish our reputation, make our name one to be whispered as potential turncoats. We would never be forgiven, never accepted fully. We will not suffer the fate of the Death Guard of our canker being known to all! We must-"_

 _The Lion raised a hand and silence returned immediately. The primarch, who had been quiet since the beginning of Cypher's revelations, leaned forward in his throne, attentive and judging._

 _"Tell me more."_

It is unknown exactly what was spoken between the Cypher and the Lion, but the secretive legionnaire did make his lord primarch aware of Luther's betrayal and proclamation of independence from the Imperium. Furious at this treachery, the Lion departed with all of the Dark Angels in tow to quell the rebellion on Caliban before news of it reached the rest of the Imperium. As the Dark Angels arrived to the Caliban System, the Lion hailed his homeworld, hoping that Cypher had deceived him and that Luther and his sons on the Death World that raised him were in fact loyal.

The response to his hail shattered this hope. The voice of former Legion Master Merir Astelan responded, "We have seceded from the Imperium. We no longer acknowledge the authority of the Emperor or Lion El'Jonson, only that of the Saviour of Caliban: Sar Luther. We are the independent world of Caliban. Be gone and never return." The First Primarch coldly responded that such a betrayal could not go unpunished and swore to kill Luther and his lieutenants no matter the cost.

The loyalist First Legion began their assault on their own homeworld, crippling the Independent fleet in orbit and destroying the extensive defence system, though taking heavy losses, and bombarding much of their world, killing millions. The loyalists felt no pity at this, as they saw each and every citizen of Caliban as corrupted by Luther's manipulations and the First Legion would not suffer a single Calibanite rebel to draw breath any longer. After the initial bombardment, the loyal sons of the Lion began their descent to the surface, led by their primarch. For days brother fought brother across the planet, with the loyal legionnaires encroaching on Aldurukh. The Lion slayed hundreds of rebel Dark Angels that dared block his path to the wayward Luther. Nothing would stop him from claiming retribution.

After a brief siege, the loyalists stormed Aldurukh, and began to hunt for Luther the Betrayer. They did not have to search long as Luther entered the battle, killing many loyalists as he made his way towards the First Primarch. When the two clashed, all eyes turned to them. What would have been an easy duel only years ago was now nearly a deadlock as Luther had grown powerful since breaking from the Imperium. His powers were gifts by the Ruinous Powers, gifts that made him almost the equal of the Lion.

Almost.

But the Lion was a son of the Emperor, a demigod, a conqueror of the stars and a prince of war. Eventually he wounded Luther, who lied on the ground with his foster son above him. As the First Primarch raised the Lion Sword to enact the killing blow, Sar Luther bellowed in a dark, Chaos-tainted tongue, and with that utterance, all rebel Independents on the planet vanished.

 _The Lion moved towards him, cold fury in his eyes, sword drawn, bloodied by the lives of the Calibanite Independents. Luther lay on the cold floor, fifty metres away, bloodied and barely clinging to consciousness. His foster son continued to stride towards him, killing any that attempted to stop him._

 _Luther had thought himself powerful, but his power when compared to a primarch was hollow at best. The Lion cut down a half-dozen Independents in one swing, their interference not even slowing the demigod. The First Son was almost near._

 _"Not like this, no, not like this," spat Luther. He wasn't to die here. The Dark Gods had shown him, he would survive this battle and one day lead an army to destroy the blind and foolish Dark Angels. Words came into his mind, ancient words read from forbidden scrolls and whispers of Chaos daemons. Luther began to speak them, his mouth bleeding and aching in speaking such a malicious tongue. The Lion realised what was happening and rushed forward to end the Betrayer._

 _"K'yar ghal'thek nagatoa vermuusiike, Fal'yr Engella," and with that final utterance Luther, and all surviving Independents, were pulled into the warp. Luther was in a miasma of colour and energy, quickly being dragged away along the passages of space towards the world destined for him and his followers. His wounds began to heal, leaving only scars in their place. As he was being pulled far from Caliban, he could still hear the raging screams of Lion El'Jonson, the anger a tidal wave in the warp._

 _The Saviour of Caliban felt hundreds, if not more of his brothers, become thrown off their path by the Lion's fury. The fury was white-hot, a tidal wave of a primarch's wrath and it took more and more of Luther's brothers, killing some, but dispersing more through space and time. Those who were derailed would not arrive with him, nor could their departure from the warp be accurately predicted. But half remained with him when he emerged from the Immaterium._

 _He fell onto a world of bone-white sand and crimson skies. Standing, he felt unsteady until a hand touched his shoulder. Turning, he saw Zahariel, loyal, obedient Zahariel, looking at him. "Luther, where are we?" he demanded. The Saviour saw dozens of others had landed nearby and were making their way to him. More would show up soon. Looking upwards he saw the great warp storm all around them. They were in the Eye of Terror._

 _"Brother, where are we?" Zahariel demanded again, his hand squeezing Luther's shoulder._

 _"Our new home, Zahariel, we are at our new home." His brother let go and looked at the sky, where yellow lightning struck across the heavens and began a chain reaction that would be seen all around the planet. Luther felt the wind blow by, fierce and howling, but underneath the wind he thought he heard faint, cackling laughter._

The Lion did not have time to display his frustration as Caliban had suffered heavy damage since the battle began, and Luther's dark sorcery destabilised the planet even more, leading it to break apart from the destructive war and aetheric energies. The First Legion withdrew from their former home and watched as the planet crumbled and broke apart. The death-screams of the remaining populace would leave a psychic terror-resonance in the system for decades.

Since that fateful day, the Dark Angels and their Successor Chapters have privately styled themselves the Unforgiven and vowed over the broken remains of Caliban to hunt down all of the Fallen Angels that followed Luther during the Battle of Caliban. They would do this to earn the Emperor's Forgiveness. Despite the Lion's disappearance into a warp storm in M32, supposedly chasing Luther, the sons of the First Primarch have continued their eternal vigil and duty in protecting the Imperium and hunting down those that betrayed all that they stood for.

For ten thousand years the Dark Angels and their descendants have kept this vow, capturing hundreds of the Fallen Angels and subsequently executing them upon admission of fault. Though ever loyal to the Imperium and the Emperor, the hidden shame of the Lion El'Jonson bloodline has made them distant from fellow Chapters not carrying their primarch's gene-seed, and has caused issues with several Imperial forces. It is not unknown for a Dark Angel force to swiftly arrive to a warzone or a distant star system and just as quickly depart. Though odd, these instances are few and far between when compared to the extensive list of honours and victories earned in ten millennia of constant war.

As what befell the surviving Fallen after the destruction of Caliban, several different things occurred. While some followed Luther to an unnamed world far outside the borders of the Imperium, transported by foul warp sorcery, many would be lost during this transition and became stuck in time and space. These lost Fallen will eventually leave this limbo state and arrive throughout Imperial space and beyond, which once word of their arrival is known thanks to a vast network of spies and a watchful Librarium, the sons of the Lion are soon to follow. This has occasionally caused problems from where they have departed so abruptly, often leaving Imperial forces in a life-and-death struggle against a myriad of foes. A third group is composed of those that originally followed Luther, but after the loss of the world they had held so dear and betrayed the Imperium to protect, deemed Luther a failure and would wander the Eye of Terror as mercenaries for hire or travellers without a goal. However, many of these Twice-Fallen, as those that still hold allegiance to Luther call them, have joined the ranks of War Commander Sakaeron, becoming the origin of the Phertalien, Astartes that do not carry Fulgrim's gene-seed but fight alongside the Third Legion's ranks.

Though a large proportion of the Fallen have been captured and exonerated of their crimes with their confession and subsequent death, there is very little data on how many are still alive. Long-range psychic probing into the Eye of Terror, by specially trained psykers of the Dark Angels, informed their masters that Sar Luther has rebuilt his forces. But instead of joining War Commander Sakaeron's crusades, these Fallen Angels plan something far darker and horrible but as of yet unknown to the Dark Angels.

The Dark Angels ready themselves for the Eleventh Vengeance Crusade, but strive to decipher Luther's machinations. As the Eye of Terror begins to rumble and Chaos fleets prepare for war the Dark Angels and their Successors carefully watch for any sign of the Damned Knight of Caliban, committed to ending his ten thousand year betrayal.

 **Organisation-**

The Dark Angels and their Successors abide by many of the principles and rules of the Codex Astartes, such as five-thousand man Chapters, ten companies of five hundred Astartes and much more. There are, however, two notable deviations from the Codex present in almost every Chapter descended from the Lion's gene-line. The First and Second Company, the Deathwing and Ravenwing respectively, are the only ones outside of the Inner Circle to know of Luther's betrayal and the Fallen Angels. The Ravenwing only know of base facts, the Deathwing scant more, but both work together to hunt down any of their Fallen brethren and bring them back to the Dark Angels' fortress monastery: the Rock, for repentance and execution.

The Deathwing, many adorned in advanced models of Terminator Armour, marches to war only at the command of the Inner Circle and the Supreme Grand Master. When the Deathwing is deployed in force to a battlefield, there is certainly more going on than meets the eye. The Ravenwing, the quick and mobile lightning assault force of the Chapter, scour the galaxy in search of the Fallen and are usually the first to find them and bring them to judgment. Both companies work in concert with one another, all under the close watch of the Inner Circle. Such is the way of things in a majority of the Dark Angel Successor Chapters.

A more unique, independent formation is the Watchers Eternal, formed after the destruction of Caliban. Created by the Lion, this select group of Astartes was handpicked by their primarch for their purity of spirit and utmost loyalty. The duty of the Watchers Eternal is to forever move between Chapters of Lion-descent to prevent corruption from within and, if need be, remove heretical elements when necessary.

The Astartes that make up the Watchers are currently selected by the Watchers' commander bearing the name and title of Lord Cypher in conjunction with the Dark Angels' Supreme Grand Master and the Chapter Master of the particular Chapter the Astartes is being recruited from. Once inducted into the Watchers, all insignia and heraldry are removed except the Dark Angels winged sword and Lord Cypher's white hood sigil. Though no more than five hundred Space Marines at a time, the Watchers Eternal are a force to be reckoned with, for in their pursuit of corruption, none are safe from scrutiny.

Despite this extra precaution, the Lion's illustrious bloodline is not exempt from giving birth to traitors. The recent Badab War showed that even sons of the Lion could spit on their loyalty to the Imperium and join Chaos. But none of the ten Loyal Legions and their Successors are wholly exempt from this. The Dark Angels, to their credit, do have one of the lowest amounts of Astartes that turn traitor.

 _He ran as fast as he could, transhuman muscles burning with exhaustion. They were after him and they were relentless, they always were. It was almost admirable from a certain perspective. The storm was covering his retreat but he knew that would not stop them, merely delay._

 _They had already killed his compatriots, survivors of what had been the Angels of Penance, now the Angels of Damnation. Only he was left, just as they had planned. The others were traitors, but not the hidden shame of the Lion. The others were not Fallen, but he was._

 _Gripping his bolt pistol, he checked the ammunition. Three bolts remained while his chainsword was missing most of its monomolecular sharp teeth. He sighed. After nearly three centuries of running since he was last captured and escaped, his time was finally out. He would not be taken again. Stopping, he put the pistol to his temple and closed his eyes. He began to squeeze the trigger._

 _But his finger would not move. Opening his eyes he saw a figure in black a hundred metres away, hand outstretched, crystallised hood glowing with power. A Librarian! Damn them, they had prepared well it seemed. From behind he heard armoured boots thud on stone and puddles of water being splashed. Gauntlets from behind removed his bolter clip, then the round in the chamber. Only then did his body unfreeze. The useless pistol was knocked to the ground and he was punched in the stomach. The armour he wore on Caliban was long gone, now replaced with a superior Corvus model. But even that was half-broken, patched with scavenged metals and cannibalised parts. The armour easily buckled under the blow._

 _Bent over, out of breath and the will to live, he was dragged from his hiding spot out into the rain. It smacked against their armour; the water that hit his face was cool and refreshing. Around him the Watchers Eternal formed. Behind them came a squad of Ravenwing from the Disciples of Caliban with an Interrogator-Chaplain leading them. They all looked down at him, judging him, and feeling that they were superior and in the right. Fools the lot of them, he thought bitterly._

 _As lightning flashed and thunder roared a figure in black armour covered in a white robe emerged from amongst the Watchers. He moved towards him, a giant power sword sheathed across his back. He knew who this was. Cypher, though the bearer of that name was not the same brother as the one he knew so long ago._

 _"Legionnaire Willyr Castez, Dark Angel of the Calibanite Independent Defence Force, Fourth Company, Second Squad, traitor to the Imperium, the Lion and the Emperor. Fallen Angel," intoned Cypher._

 _"You know me well. What is your name I wonder? The name you had before you abandoned it to adorn that white robe and wield that damn sword." Silence was his answer, which Willyr expected._

 _"What now? Am I to be tortured to confess my sins? Taken to the Rock and made to scream and bleed until I yell my admission of fault?"_

 _Cypher looked towards the Disciples' Interrogator-Chaplain whom nodded._

 _"No, you will not. Not this time. You escaped before you could receive proper interrogation and judgment; you shall not have the chance to do so again."_

 _Unsheathing the Lion Sword from his back, Lord Cypher rested it in the ground. "Any last words, Fallen Angel, any repentance you wish to speak?"_

 _Willyr lowered his head, revealing his exposed neck. "Just get it over with."_

 _"Very well. By standing order of Lion El'Jonson I sentence you, Legionnaire Willyr Castez, to die. May the Emperor pardon you for your sins and may He forgive us for our failures."_

 _The sword was raised and in one swift motion it executed Willyr the Fallen Angel. The rain helped ease the spread of blood across the muddy ground._

 **Recruitment-**

The First Legion originally recruited from Terra, and once the Lion was discovered, Caliban. But since the cataclysmic destruction of that world, the Dark Angels select candidates from a host of sources. Some are chosen from underhive gangers, others from children of planetary aristocracy, and other the children of dead Imperial soldiers. While the Dark Angels have favourite recruitment worlds, these worlds only bring in three-quarters of recruitment, with the other quarter recruited wherever the Winged Sword ventures.

 **Homeworld-**

Caliban was a Death World and home to the First Legion for a century before it was destroyed. The largest remnant of the planet, the Aldurukh Castle, is now the fortress-monastery of the Chapter and has been renamed the Rock. The Rock sports warp and plasma drives alongside advanced shielding and weaponry, making it one of the most powerful, if not the most powerful, mobile star fortress in the Imperium. It is always on the move, preventing enemy attack and allowing the Dark Angels the ability to wage war across the galaxy with relative ease.

 **Beliefs-**

The Dark Angels, as do their Successors, believe in strict honour, fierce loyalty to their brotherhood, and hold the highest reverence for their missing father, whom many still believe will return when the Imperium needs him most, when the End Times approach.

 **Gene-seed-**

The gene-seed of the Dark Angels and their Successors has remained steadfastly pure, with all nineteen organs operating at maximum efficiency and with rejection rates being quite low. Such is the purity and compatibility of the Lion's gene-seed, that only the Ultramarines, Sons of Horus and Iron Warriors spawned more Successors.

 **Battlecry-**

When the Dark Angels march to war, common battle-cries such as "For the Emperor!", "For the Lion!" and when hunting down Fallen Angels, "Repent and receive absolution!" and "Repent! For tomorrow you die!" are heard.


	3. Emperor's Children

**Emperor's Children – Scions of Treachery**

 _"For two centuries we fought for the Emperor. Valiantly, loyally, and seeking to emulate what we mistook for nobility. I named you the Emperor's Children to come closer to what I had thought was the epitome of perfection. I was wrong, deceived by grandiose promises made by my father. The Emperor, who so arrogantly titles himself the 'Master of Mankind,' is nothing more than a fraud, a manipulator, a thief, and a liar. He scurried to Terra, handing over the reins of command to a son as blind as He is, unwilling to finish the Crusade He started. And now the Emperor would rather have the Council of Terra, full of greedy bureaucrats and weak politicians to rule the Imperium. This is weakness and weakness is imperfection. The Imperium is ours to rule, the primarchs and Astartes, not mere mortals. We made this empire; we fought and bled for it. It is only right that we should rule it._

 _As we leave the gore-strewn grounds of Bellanor IV, let us never forget this action. Let history mark today as the day the Emperor's Children burned in the ashes of rebellion and arose anew as the Sons of Fulgrim."_

-Primarch Fulgrim to the Third Legion, shortly after the Bellanor IV Dropsite Massacre

 **Origins-**

The world of Chemos did not fare well during the Old Night. The warp storms that led to the near destruction of humanity and the fracture of interstellar government isolated the beautiful but harsh, dying world of Chemos from surrounding star systems.

Before Old Night, Chemos was a mining world, rich with resources. The world was warmed by two small distant suns and surrounded by a dust nebula making the world unable to have a true night or day but eternal twilight. This twilight forced the Chemosians to import almost all of its food through interstellar trade. But the warp storms severed interstellar travel leaving the planet to fend for itself in terms of food production, a task it could not meet.

The lack of foodstuffs led to world-wide famine on an unprecedented scale with millions dying every month. The rulers of the world, the Executives, regrettably ordered that a portion of the population was all that could be sustained and built factory-fortresses to sustain this select portion. The ones that were chosen to live in the factory-fortresses lived a difficult life working to sustain the technology around them or working in the recycling centres, attempting to maintain food and water levels to keep their people alive. Outside of the factory-fortresses the bulk of the population, lacking any degree of supplies, died off in the following decades leaving entire cities devoid of all life, much to the shame and sorrow of those fortunate enough to carry on in an endless process of recycling and refurbishing in the factory-fortresses. This cycle would last thousands of years with the planet only having a few more centuries until humanity was predicted to be extinct on the planet.

This was the world the Third Primarch of the Emperor descended upon. Like all of the Emperor's sons his gene-capsule fell to the earth as if a falling star. The Executives of the largest factory-fortress, Callax, sent a team of Caretakers, the police force of the Executives, to the crash zone of the capsule pod. What they found was astonishing and would change Chemos forever.

They found a child of unparalleled beauty and an aura of wisdom permeated the young boy that the adult Caretakers detected. The commander of the Caretakers took the boy before the Executives, arguing that he should be allowed to live and not be put to death as was done to orphans and unplanned children. The Executives pointed out that resources and food was strictly rationed and that if the boy did not become a productive member of the city than he would be sent back out to the wastes, effectively a death sentence. The commander agreed and the boy was allowed to live. He was named Fulgrim shortly after, in honour of the old Chemosian god of creation. It was a name he would live up to in the coming years.

Fulgrim's body, being the work of the Emperor, needed only the barest and smallest of sustenance to thrive on and within a few years he was an adult whose knowledge and ingenuity greatly helped the people of Callax. Within a short time Fulgrim secured himself a seat on the Executives Board and shortly thereafter became the sole leader of the factory-fortress.

Under his direction the factory-fortress expanded, re-opened closed mines and assimilated forgotten settlements, enlarging Callax's resources and allowing for the first time in centuries a surplus in food production, allowing the strict regulation of resources to be eased and human reproduction to see positive, approved growth. Fulgrim's skills quickly reached legendary heights, stories of his leadership swept across Chemos. Within fifty years Fulgrim was the sole ruler of the entire planet without a shot fired in anger. With food production and factory output reaching unknown heights the population and comfort of living rose steadily. Fine arts such as painting, music, and dancing, arts ignored during the decline of society, were rapidly taken up by Fulgrim and the people mirrored their beloved leader. Fulgrim concluded to his people that humanity without art was akin to lacking a soul, that art helped Mankind grow as a species and was a hallmark of cultured civilisation and they agreed wholeheartedly.

The Emperor, having detected the psychic presence of a son of His nearby, travelled in a vast fleet towards His Third Son. What the Emperor found amazed Him. Chemos, within just a fifty year span, had transformed from a planet nearing extinction to a world thriving with life, art, and industrial production. Chemos was the centre of a multi-star system economic confederation, enriching and enlarging its neighbours. To the pride of Fulgrim and his people, Chemos had developed enough agriculturally to export its surplus foodstuffs.

As the Emperor descended to the surface Fulgrim awaited with his army of Caretakers at the gates of Callax, the capital of this unified Chemos. The Emperor, exiting His golden dropship, was greeted with an army already kneeling in a show of fealty, taking their cue from their Phoenician.

 _Fulgrim stood ahead of the men and women he led, looking up to the sky with a knowing smile on his face. When the Caretakers warned Fulgrim that a large, unknown fleet of warships had entered the star system there was some panic amongst the populace but Fulgrim, somehow knowing who it was that was approaching Chemos, calmed the people and told them everything would be fine._

 _His Caretakers were still uneasy, not understanding the significance of the golden ship with eagles and lightning bolts adorning it. But Fulgrim stood there, in the simple, but finely crafted clothing he wore, awaiting his father's judgment._

 _The dropship's ramp lowered and golden light spilled from the interior, alighting the twilight sky. As a figure of magnitude and glory descended down the ramp Fulgrim dropped to his knees in adoration and love. His people did the same, trusting him._

 _The man he knew to be his father walked towards him, power and perfection in every centimetre of His being from the strands of his raven coloured hair to his eyes, full of experience and knowledge. The Emperor lowered an armoured gauntlet with palm upward. "Rise, my son, I am your father, the Emperor of Mankind, and I have come to claim you."_

 _"And so you shall," Fulgrim said, taking the hand and rising. Father and son embraced and Fulgrim knew the future would be grand for not just him or the people of Chemos but for all of humanity._

With Fulgrim in tow, having declared his loyalty to the Emperor without a show of arms, one of the few primarchs to did so, the Emperor returned to Terra to announce Fulgrim to the Third Legion, the Legion based off his genome.

What Fulgrim found saddened him. A terrible accident known as the Blight occurred many years ago, corrupting almost all of the Third Legion's stock of gene-seed, causing much of it to be destroyed and without a primarch rebuilding a Legion was a long and difficult process. Before him stood only 200 Space Marines, some of whom carried the banners of multiple companies, companies that had died off or had been annihilated during the Crusade.

The primarch saw a resemblance of the struggle of Chemos in his remaining gene-sons. To them he gave the sacred task of bringing the Emperor's light to all the stars in the sky. The Book of Primarchs states he told them upon their first meeting, "You are the Emperor's chosen, His heralds, His warriors, His children, for this is only the beginning."

While many were aghast that the new primarch would dare use the Emperor's own title in the naming of a Legion the Emperor simply laughed and indulged His son. From henceforth the Emperor renamed the Third Legion the 'Emperor's Children,' ratifying a name long known within the Legion since their defence of the Master of Mankind during the Proximan Betrayal early in the Great Crusade but now given the full legal authority of Imperial decree. The Officio Militaris' College of Arms recorded the change and marked the Third Legion's panoply as Imperial purple and gold with the talon-spur as their emblem and the unique right to bear the Aquila Palatine upon their breastplate as executors of the Imperial will, an honour given only to the Emperor's Children. Of course, following the great betrayal that was the Fulgrimian Heresy the Aquila was allowed to be worn on the breastplate of all loyal Astartes, if they chose to wear it.

Fulgrim would state that his Legion's overall goal was to follow the exemplary honour of the Master of Mankind, never to fail in service to Him, and to follow the path of perfection so that they truly would be the children of the Emperor.

Renamed and now led by their primogenitor the Emperor's Children were ready to take part in the Great Crusade once more. Due to their low numbers, however, meant that for some years they would be delegated to another Legion to fight alongside. The Emperor chose Horus Lupercal to guide and tutor the young Fulgrim, a decision that would bring the two Legions and their gene-sires close for the remainder of the Great Crusade.

For over a standard decade Fulgrim's Emperor's Children and Horus's Luna Wolves fought side-by-side across a hundred battlefields. The bonds of brotherhood and trust between Fulgrim and Horus, forged in war, became unbreakable, unalike as they were. So too did their Legions grow close and respectful of each other, a brotherhood that only became stronger as the decades passed by.

Just as unalike as their respective primarchs were in temperament but equal in skill, both Legions and their primarchs seemed to complement one another. Where Horus Lupercal was swift and intuitive, Fulgrim the Phoenician was patient and considered. Where the Luna Wolves were direct and brutal, the Emperor's Children were flexible and subtle. When eventually the Third Legion's numbers had grown to allow independent campaigning the Emperor's Children broke away to stand on their own but remembered their cousins in the XVI, becoming oath-brothers to the Luna Wolves; it was a bond that would unsurprisingly not survive the horrors of the Heresy.

 **The Great Crusade-**

Now in the tens of thousands the Emperor's Children spread out across the galaxy on the Emperor's Great Crusade, taking on any and all foes as a test. With each victory over a new enemy Fulgrim would state that the Legion had achieved a step closer to perfection and would only have to continue down the path of war to attain which they sought.

During the Great Crusade, Fulgrim met his brother Ferrus Manus, Primarch of the Iron Hands, on Terra. Manus, never the friendliest primarch with a cold persona, initially disdained the Emperor's Children purple-gold armoured primarch, seeing him as an arrogant peacock. Fulgrim on the other hand saw Manus as an uncultured brute.

Both brothers felt the shared bonds of alchemy and science that had gone into their making and decided to test their strengths. Manus later told his First Captain, Gabriel Santor, that Fulgrim had declared that he had come to forge the most perfect weapon ever created, and that he would wield it in combat. Of course the Primarch of the Iron Hands could not let such a boast go unanswered, and he laughed in Fulgrim's face, declaring that such weak, flesh hands could never be the equal of his own living metal appendages. Fulgrim accepted the challenge with regal grace, and both primarchs stripped to the waist, working without pause for weeks on end, the forge ringing with the deafening pound of hammers, the hiss of cooling metal, and the good natured insults of two brothers as they sought to outdo one another.

At the end of months of unceasing toil, both warriors had finished their weapons. Fulgrim had forged a mighty warhammer he named _Forgebreaker_ , a warhammer that only with a primarch's formidable strength could an individual wield, and declared that it could level a mountain with a single blow. Ferrus Manus had created a sword he named _Fireblade_ that would forever burn with the fire of the forge. Both weapons were of unparalleled quality.

Upon seeing what the other had created, each primarch declared that the other's was the superior weapon. Without another word between the two, both primarchs traded weapons and with that act sealed their friendship, much to the woe of the Imperium in later years.

Many decades later at Ullanor when Horus was declared Warmaster, Fulgrim was among the first to congratulate his brother, praising his name, and renewing the oaths they swore long ago. While many primarchs questioned the decision of raising Horus above the rest of their brotherhood Fulgrim knew in his heart that his father had made the right choice.

 **Fall to Chaos-**

Shortly after Ullanor the Emperor's Children Primarch had a challenge for the III in mind. A campaign that would truly test the mettle and skill of his Legion, an alien foe so strong that Imperial commanders predicted it would be years, perhaps decades of bloody warfare to quell the enemy. Such strength this enemy had that even some on the Council of Terra were talking of making the alien empire a protectorate of the Imperium, to the disgust and outrage of the Phoenician. Fulgrim would not have it as per Imperial doctrine only humanity was perfect and should not be corrupted by such abominations. The alien race, known as the Laer, must be exterminated root and stem, to show the galaxy that the Imperium could and would defeat all before it. Not only did Fulgrim devote his entire Legion of over one hundred thousand Astartes to the campaign he also boasted that it would be done not in years or decades but within a single Terran month to the astonishment of many. Many Imperial commanders, and even a few of his brothers, thought the Third Primarch was bragging and overestimating his Legion's ability. As it would turn out his Legion accomplished the task splendidly and within the time limit.

The campaign, better known as the Cleansing of Laeran, would last only twenty-seven days and would see the Laer's empire utterly obliterated with their homeworld being the last bastion remaining. In the course of mere hours the III destroyed the alien fleet protecting Laeran, landing upon the ocean-world in the tens of thousands. By the end of the day the Emperor's Children had killed every last alien monstrosity.

At campaign's end, with the entire Laer species wiped from existence, Fulgrim decided to visit the grand Laer temple upon the surface, known for its renowned beauty and architecture despite being of xenos origin. It was here that the first seeds of damnation would be sown amongst this once loyal gene-line. The primarch would arrive to the temple and leave enraptured with a xenos sword of sinister design as a trophy of the campaign.

Throughout the campaign the Legion's Apothecaries had discovered that the Laer had modified and enhanced their own bodies to attain specific states to better contribute to their species as a whole. Chief Apothecary Fabius Bile detailed to the Phoenician of the potential benefits of genetic modification to the standard Astartes template. This intrigued Fulgrim as he compared it to what Mankind did with unmodified humans and Astartes, seeing it as an evolution of the species, therefore making it stronger and more perfect. Fulgrim gave approval to Bile to perform surgery on several volunteer legionnaires who were in critical condition from the Cleansing and to report to him if anything noteworthy occurred.

Bile enthusiastically began to experiment on several Astartes that were severely wounded and although many died horrific deaths as their bodies reacted poorly to Bile's machinations, several did survive and would be the origins of the moral corruption of the Third Legion. For nearly a year afterwards the Emperor's Children began their downward spiral as Bile expanded his "improvements" to include hundreds of perfectly healthy Astartes. Fulgrim began to care less about emulating the Emperor and fighting for His Imperium, and instead focusing on his own accomplishments and glories while self-indulgence amongst his sons rose dramatically.

Many Inquisitors, in several of their highly-restricted missives to the High Lords of Terra centuries after the Heresy, detailed that if the Emperor's Children had continued on the path they were once on then they would have been the hedonistic warriors of the Chaos God Slaanesh. But ensuing events would show that this was not the case, and that the Fifth Legion, not the Third, would be the favoured of the Dark Prince. It is clear though from what little evidence survived the Heresy and the Scouring is that the destiny of the Emperor's Children changed drastically via the intervention of Lorgar following news of Horus' near-mortal wounding on Davin and the Warmaster's quick relocation to Terra for healing.

Few know the exact words spoken between the Aurelian and the Phoenician, and the survivors that do all reside in the Eye of Terror, but days after Lorgar's arrival the two primarchs journeyed to a world deep into unchartered territories in the Segmentum Obscurus. There upon the surface of a mist-covered planet, the two brothers entered into a cave by themselves. Neither of the two demigods spoke of what transpired in there but when they emerged, Fulgrim was no longer the Chosen of Slaanesh, but rather the Avatar of Chaos Undivided. He was to be their champion, one who would dethrone his father and install himself as the Second Emperor of Mankind.

 _"What lies in there?" his brother asked him._

 _Lorgar turned to look at him, his skin covered in golden Colchisian script, armour adorned with parchment and words of forgotten power, immaculate and inspiring. The power-maul Illuminarum rested in his hand. "The truth of course," he replied to Fulgrim. Gesturing to cave whose blackness was impenetrable even to their sight. "In there you will find truth and be bestowed a great responsibility. Can you bear it?"_

 _The Phoenician smirked, "I can handle anything, brother."_

 _"Good, then come," beckoned Lorgar. The Seventeenth Primarch walked forward confidently, his hand resting on a large book chained to the waist. He began to pray, sending his devotions into the Immaterium, letting them reverberate, calling forth those he beseeched to meet them. From behind, Lorgar heard Fulgrim speak to his Guard._

 _"Stay here, my sons. Only my brother and I can enter." His Guard accepted this, though Lorgar could feel their displeasure, showing that they did not care for the order's necessity._

 _Fulgrim quickly joined his brother and he heard Lorgar's prayers. Not so long ago, Fulgrim would have looked down upon him and sneered. The Third Son had always felt like he was superior to his devout brother, but that had been in the past. Now… Now he understood that there were indeed beings to pray too and held his tongue as they walked. Fulgrim understood that their father had lied to them, to all of them; the facades that the Emperor had constructed were being broken down and the truth of the universe was slowly re-emerging after a long slumber. Lorgar had once been known as the weakest, but in fact he had been the strongest, of mind and will if not body._

 _"What will we accomplish here, Lorgar?" Fulgrim queried as they stood at the entrance._

 _"Revelation and ascendance," he said as he stepped forward. Fulgrim matched his brother's pace and they walked inside. The cave was an unnatural pitch-black, but Lorgar's eyes were able to pierce it enough for him not to stumble, same for his brother. Their feet crunched rocks as they walked. It took him a moment to realise that the 'rocks' were bones and skulls that they treaded upon. Likely the bones of the pious or, just as likely, the bones of unbelievers. Both were viable choices to the Primordial Annihilator._

 _After what felt like hours, but could not have been more than several minutes, the two demigods emerged into a grand cavern, the walls decorated with stacked skulls; sigils etched into the wall stared down upon them. Before them was a clearing and behind that were four caves. Each cave shone with a faint colour._

 _The one on the far left steamed a sickly greenish-black. From there emerged a bloated figure, wrapped in bandages forever stained with corrupted blood. It walked to a dais and stood there, waiting. The cave to the right reeked like a slaughterhouse, Lorgar's nose detected viscera, bone marrow and blood, so much blood. A figure adorned in battle armour strode out, a long, jagged sword strapped to its back. The skin was dark red and the eyes the colour of hateful fire. It too stood on a dais._

 _The next cave was covered in steel blue mist which a figure emerged from quickly, with only a staff as a weapon. The crystal on the staff glowed with power; a sorcerer, clearly. The fourth and final cave a purple-pink mist emitted from it. It reached Lorgar's nostrils and he inhaled it. Images of eternal pleasure and pain reached him, clouting him with its cloying smell. Rich laughter followed and it was neither male nor female, yet both at once. A voice tried to speak to him, yet the words could not be discerned. He shook his head, his mental fortitude greater than the temptations. Turning to look as Fulgrim, however, he saw his brother enjoying the sensations. The Touch of Slaanesh was upon Fulgrim, but it wasn't rooted deep, not yet at least._

 _"Brother."_

 _No response._

 _+Brother.+ he pulsed psychically._

 _Fulgrim's eyes focused. He looked sidelong at Lorgar. Lorgar looked at his brother with pale golden eyes and returned to speaking with his natural voice. "Focus, Fulgrim. You are in the midst of godly representatives."_

 _He bowed his head in acknowledgment. Turning back to the four beings, each so different, yet so similar. The creature that emerged from the final cave was serpentine with long, luscious hair; three breasts covered in the finest silks and the eyes an unnatural shade of emerald green. The four stood before him._

 _Eventually, the one covered in cloaks and bearing the staff spoke, "Fulgrim the Phoenician, Third Son of the Anathema, you come before us. Why?"_

 _Fulgrim stepped forward, Lorgar's advisory words from the past few days coursing through his mind. "I have come here today," he began, "to become your Avatar of Chaos Undivided for the war to come."_

 _"Explain yourself," demanded the cloaked sorcerer. And so Fulgrim did, for hours, or days, Lorgar was not quite sure. Time worked differently here. As his brother spoke to the Chaos representatives, the Aurelian could feel the psychic communication between the four. They were judging him, seeing if he was worthy of their blessing. They were contemplating making Fulgrim their Champion._

 _Lorgar looked at his brother, who continued to debate, answer and declare to the four before him. He was strong, thought Lorgar, arrogant perhaps, but the only true choice left amongst the primarchs liable to see truth. If only Horus had gone to Davin's surface and succumbed to the temptations… Alas, he did not, but that did not spell defeat. No, it just meant a redirection of strategy, of leadership._

 _At long last the four stopped asking questions, their test with his brother having concluded. "You are worthy, Fulgrim," spoke the sorcerer. "No longer will you be lackey to the Anathema, instead you shall receive blessings from the four Dark Gods. Go forth, and plunge the Imperium in war. Win the war and become the Second Emperor."_

 _Lorgar watched Fulgrim nod, power radiating from his body as he accepted the subtle blessings. They left the cavern, together. They began their trek back the way they had come. The descent had been silent, but the ascent was the opposite. The two brothers talked of strategy, plans and plots. In the distance they could see the end of the tunnel, light piercing the veil of darkness._

 _With Fulgrim no longer the Chosen of Slaanesh, the Youngest God demanded a Legion. But who to turn, he pondered as they continued to walk?_

 _"Brother," started the Urizen, "we need more Legions."_

 _"The White Scars," Fulgrim replied immediately._

 _"The White Scars? They are uncultured barbarians, not fit for the new Imperium."_

 _"And that is where you are mistaken, Lorgar. Jaghatai and his sons might appear to be uncouth like the Sixth Legion at a glance, but they in fact are highly cultured if one were to look deep. Jaghatai has never been close to the Emperor, and cares little for the Imperium. He would rather be on the frontier, fighting with blade and bolter, exalting in the thrill of war and its riches." The Phoenician looked at the Aurelian. "I think he is a perfect candidate for our rebellion."_

 _"As you say," replied Lorgar. Hmm, perhaps that thrill of war and plunder could play into their downfall to Slaanesh. Jaghatai's past on Chogoris was promising. "And how will we turn him?"_

 _"There are ways. His loyalty to the Emperor is like thin glass. You just need to apply a little pressure and it will shatter."_

 _"I see." Lorgar looked to Fulgrim's side, the Laer sword hung comfortably next to Fireblade. That blade would certainly help._

 _"Fulgrim," he began, "let me take that blade. If I present it to Jaghatai, showing that you place trust in me and desire his brotherhood, it would help convince him. At the very least, it would seal his alliance to the rebellion."_

 _Fulgrim looked down at the sword and frowned. For a moment, Lorgar did not think he would depart with the blade, but after a moment's hesitation he held it out for Lorgar to take. "Take this and give it to him. I will go to Ferrus and convince him to join us. His discord with the Emperor has grown worse of late, and he will follow me before that weak-willed hypocrite. Once that is accomplished I will confer with Konrad. We have much to discuss. Then we will be ready."_

 _Lorgar took the sword, looking upon it for a moment. He felt whispers of the Dark Prince through its hilt, promises of power and uncountable pleasures. Yes, he thought, this would most certainly help sway the Warhawk. "We will be outnumbered in this war," he warned. "Even with the Fifth, Eighth and Tenth Legions added to the rest of us."_

 _"Numbers mean little when compared to strategy and effectiveness. Our opening moves will kill many loyalists, evening out the imbalance significantly."_

 _Lorgar nodded at this. "To war and victory."_

 _"To war and victory," Fulgrim said as they emerged from the cave into the light._

It was debated on in the early years of the Age of the Imperium why Fulgrim had been chosen to become the Arch-Traitor. Was it ambition, greed, or something worse? Rumours circulated by Chaos agents whispered that Horus Lupercal had once been the target of their foul machinations, but the Warmaster's spirit and loyalty were too strong and he resisted their lies and temptations while Mortarion and the Emperor healed his body and mind. With their plans to bring the Warmaster to the side of Chaos utterly foiled, the Ruinous Powers chose Fulgrim, as it was deemed he held the potential to bring the Imperium to its knees and already had the seeds of dissension within him. He had the charisma, a powerful Legion, widespread popularity across the Imperium, and was one of the better strategists amongst his brothers. Among the Traitor Primarchs, he was the preeminent option, though Manus, Lorgar or Angron would have been likely alternatives.

When Fulgrim returned to his fleet, he made it clear that Bile was to cease his modifications of Astartes and their gene-seed. When the Chief Apothecary questioned his primarch, the Phoenician starkly replied, "It is no longer our way. My eyes are clear now and we do not need to pollute my bloodline. We need warriors, not freaks. The war to come will be the crucible of our perfection." Bile publicly agreed to cease his experiments but quietly continued his work in secret aboard his flagship Andronius on those Astartes that craved pain and pleasure more than the wrath of their lord father. This is where the Sect of Slaanesh would grow strong and would come to outnumber the other Sects throughout the Heresy, though the vast majority followed their father in embracing Chaos Undivided in its entirety.

With himself now destined to be the Arch-Traitor by will of the gods, Fulgrim astropathically ordered the entire Emperor's Children Legion to return to Chemos. As for the reason, the Phoenician stated that the Legion would hold an ancient Chemosian tradition that would harken them to their world's old, noble culture and symbolise the ending years of the Great Crusade and the age to come. This was to be the Feast of Rebirth. As the many fleets of the III made way through the warp to their homeworld, Fulgrim informed his sons he knew would follow him into rebellion that the Legion must purge itself before it could become the catalysts of the new order.

Before Fulgrim made way to his homeworld, he rendezvoused with Ferrus Manus, Primarch of the Iron Hands. Fulgrim appealed to his brother's stark and brutal philosophy of strength and right of dominance over the weak. The Phoenician exploited the widening rift between the Emperor and the Medusan Primarch, reinforcing Manus' own reservations about the future of an Imperium led by mortal humans that had never had to fight, bleed and struggle for the empire they were to govern. Fulgrim also made promises that the Emperor's edicts and bans on certain technological advancements and research would be rescinded once he sat the Golden Throne. By the time the Arch-Traitor left, Manus and the Iron Hands were sworn to his cause. The primarch and the bulk of the Iron Tenth made their way to Ultramar in preparation for the war to come, while several thousand were quietly sent to Mars to assist in Adept Chrom's upcoming schism, as well as attempt to access the forbidden technologies laying neglected in the Vaults of Moravec. Shortly after, the Phoenician met with the Night Haunter.

Konrad Curze and his Night Lords had always walked a fine line between sanctioned and censorship; they knew that one day the Emperor would judge them for their actions and call them to account for them. The Night Lords, tired of disgust and hatred directed towards them from the Imperium and their fellow Legions, readily agreed to Fulgrim's plans and made way to the Segmentum Tempestus to begin a crusade of terror and death that would without a doubt bring Imperial retribution, just as the Arch-Traitor and Curze planned.

Finally, the Phoenician arrived to his homeworld; preparations for the massive celebration were already well underway. For days the Legion and mortal serfs prepared for the first Feast of Rebirth in a thousand years. Eventually all was ready and the Feast began. Over one hundred thousand Astartes, nearly the Legion in its entirety, feasted. Bonds of friendship and brotherhood were renewed, camaraderie shared, and tales of war were spoken with pride and fondness.

As the primarch stood tall to give the concluding speech, he told his sons of their bravery and excellence in the Crusade. He made thinly veiled detractions of the Emperor, and upon the Feast's conclusion he spoke the code-word that authorised the massacre to begin. The first casualty of the loyalists was Lord Commander Vespasian, stabbed through the hearts by his rival Eidolon, but far from the last. In the ensuing chaos thousands of loyalists died before they could escape the bloodbath.

 _It was a good day._

 _Phoenix Guard Veteran Sergeant Alden Kalaphract walked the walls of the Fortress-Factory city Callax, just as he had for three decades as the representative embodiment of the primarch. Looking out amongst the plains of dirt and grass, the eternal twilight of the world gifted by the stars Hellionna and Apillia, the Guard sergeant felt peace here at home._

 _Well, his adopted home. Terra was his true home though he had not seen it in many years. When Fulgrim was brought before the remains of his Legion, Alden had been one of the Two Hundred. He carried two banners that day, that of his company and of another. Dark times, those were, but with the primarch found, things had rapidly improved. Fresh gene-seed and Fulgrim's charisma and drive saved them and the survivors could put the dark times of the Blight behind them._

 _Not only did they gain a father, but a name as well. Emperor's Children they were ever after. From behind he could hear jubilation and sounds of music and feasting. The Feast of Rebirth was going well, quite well in fact. Although the entirety of the III in the star system was in attendance, the duties of the Phoenix Guard never ended._

 _He continued his walk atop the battlements of old, banners of the Palatine Aquila and the standard Imperial Aquila flickering in the cool wind. The wind was growing in strength but it could not hide the sounds from behind._

 _Turning, he nodded to the five that approached him._

 _"Keron, Mallius, Tyrin, Jaxxis, Venekar," he said to his Phoenix brothers. They nodded back and took place behind him. Raising a brow to them, he asked, "What brings you here, brothers? You are to be beside the Phoenician." He turned back to look across the landscape._

 _"We were reassigned, brother-sergeant," said Keron._

 _"Reassigned?" he chuckled, "Well, I'm not sure who you five annoyed, but it is quite boring out here. Peaceful, but boring. You're missing the celebration after all." In the background he could hear the primarch's voice echo through Callax through vox-speakers. The final speech was beginning._

 _They stood silently. Turning from the gazing out across the plains, Alden turned back to face his brothers._

 _"Why are you really here?" he asked quizzically._

 _Keron stepped forward, "To ask you a question, Sergeant Alden."_

 _"Well get on with it, these old bones don't like to stand needlessly."_

 _"Where do your loyalties lay?"_

 _Alden's jaw clenched partly in surprise, partly in anger. "To the Emperor and Fulgrim, of course. You dare ask that?"_

 _Keron ignored the question. "If you had to choose, where would your loyalty be sworn to in its entirety?"_

 _Before he could respond, gunfire and explosions erupted from the Square of Leovo. Alden tensed, believing there to be an attack, but the other five didn't move, almost as if they expected it. Realisation dawned._

 _"So," he spat, "the entire Guard is following this… this madness?"_

 _"You are the only one we doubted, and it seems for good reason. We wish to raise our father as the Second Emperor, the True Emperor of Mankind. None can know that a member of the primarch's own bodyguard chose the Emperor over the Phoenician. So again, what say you?"_

 _"Heresy."_

 _With that word uttered the other five rushed him, believing that his years on Chemos away from the Great Crusade and his advanced age had slowed him down. It had not. Tyrin died with a power spear's blade through the chest, thrown with accuracy by Alden. With them getting so close it would have been a hindrance._

 _Pulling his gladius, a gift from an Ultramarine comrade after a cooperative campaign of compliance a century ago, out of its scabbard he ducked a swing by Jaxxis' spear and rammed the short combat sword through the soft flesh of the chin, driving through tongue and cranium, piercing the brain. As the traitor died, Alden gripped the traitor's spear as it loosed from his fingers, spun around, deflecting a blow from Venekar and stabbed it into Keron's leg. Blood spilled out like thick wine. He stood straight and kicked his former brother in the left knee, causing it to fold backwards, breaking it despite the armour._

 _With his knee shattered, Keron fell, grunting in pain and cursing him. Mallius' sword caught Alden in the abdomen, but as the traitor tried to pull it out, Alden kept it in place with one hand while his other rammed the gladius in Mallius' neck. With a quick twist and flick, the head came off and rolled across the pristine alabaster ceramite._

 _Pulling the sword from his stomach, adrenaline and pain-chems from his body and armour minimising the pain, Alden took a step near Venekar who backed away._

 _"Is that all you've got, you bastard?"_

 _Alden's chest exploded. He fell to the ground. Behind him he heard Keron curse again as the other Astartes pushed himself up. Venekar knocked his gladius away and stood over him, flipping him onto his back with a foot._

 _"Any last words?" Keron taunted, raising a smoking bolt pistol to aim at Alden's skull._

 _"For the Emper-"_

 _A bolt shot was fired and Alden Kalaphract, true Child of the Emperor, died._

Although several groups of loyal Emperor's Children managed to escape the Feast to scatter across the planet, only two were able to truly annoy the traitors. One, led by Lieutenant Commander Abdemon, travelled to the fortress-factory city of Dallyn and would resist the traitor Third Legion for several days before being killed by the then-Sergeant Tyberius Sakaeron. The other group dual-led by Captain Saul Tarvitz and Captain Solomon Demeter managed to capture an intra-system cargo ship and escaped to star system's vast asteroid belt. There they would hide, waiting patiently for months until an opportunity presented itself to capture a warp capable ship and warn the Emperor of Fulgrim's treachery. By the time Tarvitz and the other loyal Emperor's Children reached Terra, it was too late. Fulgrim's Dropsite Massacre had already occurred, seeing to the deaths of near two hundred thousand loyalist Astartes.

 **Dropsite Massacre-**

When word reached Chemos of Curze's murderous rampage and the orders from Terra to join with Sanguinius, Fulgrim was pleased. His plan was working; the loyalists were being duped into assembling in force; just as he had planned months ago with the Night Haunter. The purged Emperor's Children journeyed quickly and arrived in the Bellanor Star System, joining forces with the other Legions that made up the Retribution Armada. As planned months earlier, the Word Bearers arrived in half their number, declaring to help rid the galaxy of the Night Lords.

Sanguinius called a conclave of his brothers and, in conjunction with Fulgrim, crafted a battle-plan that would utterly destroy the Eighth Legion. The first to land were the drop-pods of the Ninth and Twelfth Legions, impacting around communication hubs and supply depots throughout Rose City.

The Fourteenth, Eighteenth and the remainder of the Ninth followed en masse, landing on the outskirts of the city to establish a fall-back position. First Captain Raldoron of the Blood Angels took his forces and moved towards the centre of the city where Sanguinius fought with his elite. Death Guard and Salamander legionnaires protected the flanks and rear, preventing any counter-attack by the Night Lords.

The assault was going well, though the Night Lords were entrenched deep. Fulgrim, seeing that the loyalists were in prime condition, messaged Sanguinius that reinforcements were inbound. The Word Bearers, the traitorous Death Guard, the World Eaters, and the Emperor's Children landed in the drop-zones and awaited their 'allies.'

Salamander and Death Guard loyalists withdrew to the drop-zones. There, Fulgrim revealed the depths of his treachery. Within moments of he and his brothers' Legions opening fire, thousands of loyalists lay dead. As the traitors advanced towards the city to encircle the loyalists, World Eater drop-pods commanded by Angron landed amidst the retreating Imperial Astartes, killing thousands more.

For over a day the traitors pushed ever inwards, cutting down the loyalists like a scythe through wheat. The loss of the Serenity Spaceport was unexpected, and it allowed the Imperials to withdraw to their beleaguered fleet in orbit. The Bellanor Exodus saw the majority of the survivors evacuated. Under the leadership of the Angel, the Imperial fleet was able to break through and escape. Though Fulgrim was irritated that any escaped, he was nonetheless pleased with how his rebellion had begun.

As the dust settled on Bellanor, Fulgrim was elevated to official leader of the rebellion and given the rank of War Commander by his brothers. With the traitors united in purpose and the majority concentrated in one location, the War Commander began to order his brothers and their Legions to theatres of war to hamper Throne-loyalists while his now renamed Sons of Fulgrim, World Eaters, Black Legion and Thousand Sons began to advance onto the Throneworld itself. His rebellion would conquer thousands of worlds and tens of thousands more joined him, some voluntarily while others did so to cowardly avoid conflict.

 _The view before him was magnificent._

 _A million men of the Imperial Army stood before him, their regimental banners proud and on display. Overhead flight after flight of atmospheric bombers, fighters and dropships flew. In orbit the Pride of Chemos skirted the upper atmosphere. It would cause a thunderstorm, but that would be later._

 _Fulgrim, reverently called the Phoenician, War Commander of the Eight Legions, and future Second Emperor of Mankind, looked out the balcony window of his residential suite towards the army assembled before him._

 _Tank after tank, the Leman Russ-model having been renamed the Gorgon-model for the rebel Legions, APCs, and trucks were arranged neatly to show the planet's organisation and pursuit of perfection. Not bad, for mortals._

 _The world of Thaladyne had welcomed him with open arms three days ago. The local Imperial Army garrison, both fleet and ground components, swore fealty immediately when his fleet emerged from the warp. Nowhere on the planet did the Imperial Aquila fly, only the Chemosian Phoenix did._

 _Behind him the doors of his sanctum opened and a dozen pair of boots entered. Turning, Fulgrim looked at his sons, eleven lord commanders and his first captain. Their armour was the purple and gold of the Emperor's Children but the bird of prey on the breastplate was not the Emperor's Aquila but Fulgrim's Phoenix. "My sons, I have called you here today to plan our next move." He snapped his fingers and a hololithic projection blinked into existence. A world of vast mountains and forests was presented, its beauty impressive but not overly so._

 _Eidolon read the world's name, "Molech," he stepped closer, "the name sounds familiar but I cannot quite place it."_

 _Fulgrim chuckled dryly, "That's the point."_

 _His sons looked at their gene-sire, questions obvious in their stances and faces._

 _"The Third Legion, in conjunction with the First and Fifth, took Molech decades ago without a single shot being fired. The Emperor led the compliance. Eidolon you were there, you stood beside me as the world's leadership swore fealty to the Imperium. Can you not remember?"_

 _The Lord Commander Primus stood still, his mind trying hard to pierce the shadows that clouded his memories. After a moment, he muttered, "No, I cannot."_

 _"Exactly!" Fulgrim moved closer to the holo-world. "We were on that world for months according to data-logs, yet I cannot remember but the vaguest details myself. I cannot remember, because the Emperor did not want me to. He did something to my brothers and I, alongside our sons, something to make us forget. Whatever he is trying to hide there, I will find it."_

 _"What are the planet's defences?" asked Kaesoron, he stood somewhat separately from the lord commanders, his position an oddity in the Legion's hierarchy. Despite his disadvantage and lack of power, the Astartes had a sharp mind and could have gone far if he were a lord commander, but alas Kaesoron took a certain pride in his rank after so many years holding it._

 _"A fleet in orbit, numbering over seventy warships, including eight battleships and five fleet carriers; fifty-eight million Army and militia soldiery, alongside five hundred Astartes drawn from the Blood Angels and Ultramarines."_

 _"So much protection… What could warrant that?" inquired Sakaeron. The young lord commander stood at ease, his violet eyes so like Fulgrim's scanning the world, looking for weaknesses, areas to deploy and where to strike._

 _The War Commander's own gaze stared at the holo-world intently, "That's what I intend to find out."_

 _"What assets should be deployed to take Molech, War Commander?" inquired Kaesoron._

 _"We have thirty-five thousand Sons in the fleet, eight thousand Black Legion led by Typhon, and six hundred or so Thousand Sons led by Magnus the Red. Our fleet is much larger and more powerful than theirs and we have approximately thirty million Army troopers. That will be enough," stated Lord Commander Lucius. "We can take the world."_

 _"Aye, but that could take months as the loyalists are fortified and dug in, not to mention Molech is a Knight-World and we'd have to face several Knight Houses," Lord Command Merrin Valavonius said, looking sidelong at Lucius. "We need more, more Astartes and more Army divisions."_

 _"You are correct, Merrin. That is why I have ordered for an additional fifteen million Army soldiers from various fleets not currently in combat to rendezvous with us. And as for more Astartes," the War Commander crossed his arms, "twenty thousand White Scars will be here soon, led personally by my brother."_

 **Siege of Terra-**

After seven years of civil war the Phoenician deemed he was strong enough to attack the Throneworld. The bulk of the Traitor Legions invaded the Sol System and within a month had defeated Battlefleet Solar and began to land forces upon Luna and Terra.

The traitors quickly conquered Luna and captured the Lion's Gate and Eternity Wall Spaceports on Terra, establishing a base of operations for their invasion force. After these relatively easy victories, troubles began for the traitors. The Arch-Traitor had not planned on the Imperial Palace being as well fortified as it had become. Dorn and Perturabo working in such a successful conjunction together allowed the Palace to become the most heavily defended fortress in the galaxy. Fulgrim had hoped their personalities would clash, overriding their cool friendship. Instead, the two brothers' friendship only strengthened into the close brotherhood of which it is now remembered.

Despite the effectiveness and fortification done by the IV and VII, and the leadership of the Warmaster, the loyalists were vastly outnumbered and the three Loyal Legions were slowly but surely pushed back. But the War Commander was becoming worried. He had hoped to capture Terra quickly but weeks turned into a month and his forces had only captured the outer Saturmine Gate.

As the Siege trudged onwards, the Ultimate Gate fell within two months and the traitors swarmed to the Eternity Gate, believing victory to be near. That belief in victory was swept away with the sudden arrival of the Raven Guard. As the fleet of the Nineteenth Legion joined the remaining Imperial warships in the system, Corax and his veteran legionnaires entered into the Palace through secret pathways while the rest of the XIX scattered across the globe to combat the White Scars who were butchering the Terran populace for sport and pleasure. For weeks afterwards the Siege was deadlocked, neither side able to gain an upper hand. With the failure to capture the Eternity Gate on the ninety-third day and Imperial reinforcements inbound, Fulgrim became desperate.

Summoning Alpharius the two primarchs created a battle-plan that both hoped would win the war. Two days later void shields of the Sanctum Imperialis suffered a cataclysmic failure and collapsed. With nothing to bar his way, the War Commander and a strike force were teleported deep inside the Imperial Palace. Fulgrim and the strike teams moved swiftly down the vaunted corridors of the Palace until they reached the Throne Room itself.

Before the traitors stood Captain-General Constantin Valdor of the Legio Custodes and Rogal Dorn of the Imperial Fists. While Lord Commander Sakaeron advanced to fight Valdor, Fulgrim tried to convince his brother to join him and cast down their father. Dorn refused and the two duelled though the end result was not in doubt. Within moments, Dorn lay dead at Fulgrim's feet and the War Commander began to advance into the Throne Room itself. The Emperor, having felt and seen His son's death, readied Himself to confront the wayward son outside the gates of His private sanctum. The two fought a brief but devastating battle that ended with Fulgrim's physical death and his soul destroyed beyond recovery, leaving the Ruinous Powers unable to retrieve it. As the Arch-Traitor's sons teleported his corpse back to the _Pride of Chemos_ , the Warmaster, Perturabo and Corax arrived to the Throne Room to find their brother dead and their father dying.

With Fulgrim's death, the Heresy was lost. The Sons of Fulgrim fled first from Terra, their hearts filled with grief at the death of their gene-sire. In the wake of their sudden departure the loyalists launched a retaliatory offensive, killing thousands of traitor Astartes and tens of millions of rebel soldiers as they attempted to flee. Due to fleeing that day without warning, and causing many to lose their lives, many of the Traitor Legions festered a hatred of the Third Legion that would last for centuries to millennia, none more so than the World Eaters. The aftermath of the Heresy would see the traitors retreating across the galaxy. The Year of Intermission saw the Imperium consolidate and prepare for its counter-attack. The Great Scouring would last seven years and see the Imperium's borders restored and the Traitor Legions pushed into the Eye of Terror.

During the Intermission and the Scouring the Sons of Fulgrim withdrew to Chemos. There, the principal commanders of the Third Legion argued over their next course of action. First Captain Julius Kaesoron put forth that the III should add their forces to the Syndicate Chaotica as it was the best way to resist the Imperium. Lord Commander Eidolon argued that Chemos and the nearby star systems should be fortified extensively so they could protect their homeworld. Lord Commander Sakaeron of the Second Millennial stated that the Legion should withdraw to the Eye of Terror, such as the Black Legion and others had done, to rebuild and plan for the Long War. When met with resistance, Sakaeron publicly agreed to stay on Chemos and help defend his home, but privately planned something altogether different.

In an act that would earn him the moniker 'the Deceiver,' the future War Commander betrayed his brothers. Sakaeron, alongside his subordinates and like-minded officers, captured several dozen warships, including the Legion's flagship, stole the majority of the Neophytes and Initiates training on Chemos and departed for the Eye. Eidolon swore vengeance for this betrayal while Kaesoron accepted it more readily.

Eventually, the Imperium's retribution reached Chemos. The Imperial fleet, spearheaded by Warmaster Horus, broke through the III defence fleet, crippling many ships, though the majority were able to escape into the warp before their destruction. With the void secured, the Warmaster gave the Seventh Legion the honour to burn Chemos. The _Phalanx_ , flagship of the Imperial Fists, launched the first wave of missiles bearing the Life-Eater Virus. It was also the warship that would fire a lance beam to ignite the combustible poison gas, incinerating all life on Fulgrim's homeworld.

 _A lance cannon from the_ Phalanx _fired onto the world of treachery below. The lance struck Callax, where the fortress-monastery of the Third Legion resided. The beam ignited the gaseous atmosphere, fire spreading like waves of retribution from the impact site. The virus-bombs did well, thought Horus Lupercal, very well._

 _With that shot, the rest of the Imperial fleet fired. Hundreds of lance bolts struck Chemos, burning its people, what few Astartes had chosen to remain, its architecture and its culture._

 _Good._

 _The world burned for hours, blackening its soil, and purging the taint from its air. Nothing would live there ever again. It seems the Phoenix will not rise from these ashes, he thought grimly. The Spirit's captain strode to its master._

 _"My lord, orders?"_

 _"Prepare the fleet to disembark."_

 _The captain saluted smartly and withdrew, barking orders._

 _The Warmaster strode across the bridge of the_ Vengeful Spirit _as tech-adepts, bridge crew and servitors organised the fleet for warp transit. Behind him, the main doors hissed open. Four steps of boots thundered across the bridge._

 _"My sons," he began, turning around. The Mournival stood before him dutifully. Horus' smile became strained as he looked at them. The four that stood before him were not the four that were with him at Davin. Only two of them remained, the other two new inductees, brought in to fill dead men's positions. He would miss them dearly, but the Imperium would endure, the blood of martyrs would support it for the millennia to come._

 _"How fares the Sixteenth?"_

 _"Determined," replied Horus Aximand, "Ready for the next campaign."_

 _"The Sons of Horus await your command, my lord primarch," spoke Falkus Kibre._

 _"Good," Horus turned to look at the stars._

 _"Where do we sail next?" asked Aximand._

 _"Chogoris."_

 **The Long War-**

Following the _Exterminatus_ of Chemos, the Sons of Fulgrim found themselves in the Eye of Terror a broken, defeated Legion. Attempts to unify the Legion ultimately failed and thus the Succession War began with every warlord hoping to unite the fractured Legion in his image. This continued for a century with the Sons of Fulgrim whittling down steadily. At the rate of attrition, any victor would rule but a hollow force.

As the Sons of Fulgrim continued to decimate themselves a greater threat emerged. The World Eaters, led by their Daemon Primarch, broke the fragile peace that had prevailed in the Eye and attacked the III. The favoured disciplined warriors of Khorne, with their Berserker brethren, led their elite Blood Pact alongside blood crazed hosts of mortal armies to war which saw entire warbands of the III become destroyed.

 _Apothecary Von Kalda hastened as he felt the thuds and booms of an orbital bombardment shake the ground. Even with six hundred metres of plasteel, adamantium, rockcrete, ceramite and natural rock separating his lab from the surface, he felt it as if he were standing on the surface._

 _His mortal assistants and fellow Apothecaries took what could not be left behind and burned the rest. Half a dozen legionnaires stood nearby on guard, weapons tightly gripped and stances betraying their unease. They knew this was no raid or minor attack by another Third Legion warband, no; this was a mission of annihilation being carried out by another Legion. The World Eaters had come and were clamouring for blood._

 _Von Kalda cursed. He had spent decades building and expanding his lab on Falzyer, one rumoured to rival Bile's, wherever that madman was. Von Kalda had been part of the cabal of Apothecaries that had carried out experiments and modifications on Astartes gene-seed in the months before the primarch had ordered it to stop. Despite their father's order the Apothecary Cabal continued to experiment in secret. During the Siege, many of their select group was killed but several survived and following the Phoenician's death by the hand of the Emperor, continued their great work at unlocking and improving the genetic code of Astartes in the attempt to create a more perfect specimen._

 _Many Sons of Fulgrim didn't understand and nearly every other rebel legionnaire did not either so Von Kalda and his compatriots kept their experiments secret. Yet, despite that, he had been betrayed. There was no other way the World Eaters would have known where his lab was located. Falzyer was a barren wasteland with no amount of resources to speak of. It was out of the way, unimportant. Yet the Twelfth Legion had come in force and knew exactly where his base was. They must be here for the Source. Frowning, he nodded his head. Yes, that must be it. The Butchers of Nuceria were here after the Source. The possibilities and dangers associated with that would cause anyone unease and considerable contemplation._

 _The ceiling stopped shaking, silence reigning momentarily. The bombardment stopped. Von Kalda inclined his head and four of the guards left to reinforce the surface. They would buy him time long enough for his Stormbird to be loaded. He had a warp-capable corvette not far from the planet, powered down and under strict vox-silence. Not even his fellow Apothecary assistants nor his legionnaires knew of it. To the two remaining legionnaires he gestured for them to follow. Both did, their weapons ready, helmets donned._

 _Von Kalda proceeded to the vault where the Source was kept. The vault doors were gene-locked and password protected but within minutes he had reached the final door. Cutting the palm of his hand with a surgeon's blade he placed it on the cogitator bio-monitor._

 _"Scanning… scanning… scanning," intoned the machine-spirit. "Identification confirmed. Welcome, Apothecary Von Kalda." The thick doors began to hiss open. As the doors opened, thick white mist spilled out. Cold to the touch, he stepped forward into it. The air cleared and in the centre of the room stood the Source. A vial the length of an Astartes index finger lay there locked in place. Carefully removing it from its dais, he placed it inside a protective container._

 _The Source, Fulgrim's blood, pure and undiluted, was a treasure. When the primarch had been brought back aboard the Pride of Chemos he was already dead and chaos began to ensue as the Sons began to hastily retreat, leaving their allies to fend for themselves. Von Kalda had put the vial in the primarch's corpse and retrieved some of the blood. It was worth more than a squadron of battle-barges. The possibilities the vial held could spawn excellent, pure gene-seed to revive the Legion. He had yet to unlock its secrets but he knew he was close. His notes were on the data-pad he always carried with him._

 _A bolt shot rang out. Turning quickly he saw one of his guards' bolt pistol smoking and the other crumpling to the ground. Blood and brain matter splattered across the pristine sterile chamber._

 _"What is the meaning of this!?" he demanded. "Are you the traitor?"_

 _The legionnaire paused, looking at Von Kalda through emerald green eye-lenses. Laughter came barking from his vox-grille. "Traitor, Von Kalda? I betray no one because I am sworn to no one."_

 _The Astartes removed his helm and Von Kalda gasped._

 _Fabius Bile, bolt pistol still in hand, walked towards him. "I'll take that," the mad genius Apothecary said as he took the vial of blood. "This will come in quite handy." Almost as an afterthought he retrieved the data-slate as well._

 _"So what, did you ally yourselves with the World Eaters? For what gain?"_

 _"Ally? No, no, no, my dear Von Kalda. Angron has been planning this for years. It is fortunate for me that he chose this world to begin the Legion Wars. I alone could not get here through your security. But a primarch could. The Red Angel has proven an excellent distraction."_

 _Von Kalda's mouth went dry. "Angron is here?"_

 _"Oh yes. Even now, he will be cutting down your lackeys and followers on the surface. You will die today."_

 _"As will you. There is only one way out." He gestured towards the door leading out of the lab._

 _"I will not be going that way. I have other means of escape." A wicked smile of sharp teeth split the Apothecary Primus' face. "But you don't." Bile raised his pistol and shot Von Kalda in both knee caps. He fell in pain, his legs ruined. Bile stepped out; pushing the close rune and the door began to shut._

 _"When you see the World Eaters, before they kill you, give them my thanks."_

 _Von Kalda roared in anger as the doors clanged shut._

The war that Angron started quickly spread throughout the Eye, with the Traitor Legions fighting one another, making temporary alliances, and quickly breaking them to forge new ones. None though openly helped the Sons of Fulgrim. They were outcasts, targets, perceived as craven for their retreat following the War Commander's death, and thus were hunted down like rabid dogs. Two centuries after the Slave Wars begun, the Sons of Fulgrim were a shadow of their former glory, their numbers hovering on the brink of extinction. There was no hope amongst the Phoenician's sons, no goal other than to resist and survive for as long as possible.

This all changed with the arrival of Tyberius Sakaeron who proclaimed himself Heir of Fulgrim and the Second War Commander. Sakaeron was able to unite much of the Third Legion, rejuvenating it with his own legionnaires. Sakaeron, since his trickery over Chemos centuries ago, had found a new world for the Legion named Nallavonn on the edge of the Eye of Terror, and had raised a large and powerful force of Astartes. This was supplemented with a moderate sized though strong fleet.

With the majority of the Sons of Fulgrim united under his banner, Sakaeron won the Succession War, though many still refute his title and claim. Sakaeron was also able to wane down the Legion Wars significantly though they would never truly stop, as the fickle nature of Chaos demanded constant sacrifice and war that the Slave Wars provided. Sakaeron did not mind. The War Commander wanted the Legion Wars to continue in some form to keep his warriors battle-hardened in-between invasions of Imperial territory.

Since uniting the Sons of Fulgrim and impressing on them a semblance of structure and hierarchy reminiscent of the Legion as it was under the Phoenician, though with the addition of the advisory Tyberkenna in place, the War Commander has launched ten Vengeance Crusades against the Imperium. Each Crusade has reaped a heavy toll on the empire they had once forged, forcing untold amount of resources and manpower to be focused on the Iron Cage separating the Eye of Terror from the rest of the galaxy. As the 41st Millennium comes to a close, the Deceiver readies his vast fleets and armies for the Eleventh Vengeance Crusade. With the Imperium beset by so many threats, Sakaeron believes if he were to break through the Iron Cage centred on Cadia, then the innards of the Imperium would be open to conquest and he would be able to advance onto Terra itself. To assist in this dark endeavour, he has the support of a majority of the Chaos warbands, giving him numbers not seen since the Heresy. Further more, he had met and gained promises from all of the Daemon Primarchs, further increasing his prestige and the destructiveness of the upcoming Crusade.

On Terra, the Imperial Senate orders the reinforcement of the Eye of Terror Iron Cage, but with threats from the Tyranids, Necrons, Orks, Tau, rebels and heretics within the Imperium itself, the Dark Eldar and more, there is little that can be spared.

 **Combat Doctrine-**

The combat doctrine of the Emperor's Children and later the Sons of Fulgrim revolves around perfection in all forms of warfare. Each and every legionnaire is expected to operate a vehicle as well as they shoot a bolter. This is done so all legionnaires can adapt to any situation and be able to fill gaps in specialist positions if need be. This philosophy has helped ensure that even though the Sons of Fulgrim are not the most numerous of the Traitor Legions, they are one of the more coordinated and therefore dangerous, whether it be in company-size engagements or one-on-one combat.

 **Organisation-**

During the Great Crusade the Legion encompassed thirty great companies called Millennials, each numbering thousands. After the Heresy, Scouring, Succession War and the Legion Wars the Sons of Fulgrim were brought to near-extinction before Sakaeron brought them back from the brink. Uniting the majority of Third Legion warbands with his own legionnaires that followed him into the Eye and the ones that he created, the War Commander now fields a powerful army.

Though the Third Legion is largely made up of those that bear the gene-seed of the First War Commander, not all are children of Fulgrim. A minor, yet loyal and dedicated proportion are made up of Astartes originating from other Legions, enlarged with more recent traitor Space Marines from the Adeptus Astartes. This formation is known as the Phertalien and adorns itself in Son of Fulgrim livery, minus the left shoulder-pad which is void-black to reflect their foreign heritage. They are nominally under the command of Merir Astelan, former Dark Angel and Calibanite Independent, now Force Commander of the Phertalien, the Hand of Sakaeron, and nicknamed the Vengeful Knight. The Phertalien are not segregated from the rest of the Legion as would be assumed, but are intermingled throughout all Millennials, making clear to all who fight under the Phoenix's banner that they are all brothers in the Long War, regardless of gene-seed origin.

Although the Emperor's Children had a Librarius during the Great Crusade, it was quite small and only grew in miniscule steps during the renaming of the Legion and the wars that followed. Sakaeron's Sons of Fulgrim, unlike its predecessor, have moderate numbers of Astartes battle-psykers though nearly half are not of the Phoenician's bloodline. The Legion's Librarius is led by Lord Sorcerer Iskandar Khayon, known as the Eye of Sakaeron.

Though the Legion is officially Chaos Undivided, there are Sects for each Chaos God, with the Sect of Slaanesh being the largest.

 **Recruitment-**

Once their primarch had been discovered, the Third Legion recruited solely from Chemos, recruiting only the very best and brightest. Since the destruction of their homeworld during the Scouring, the Third Legion principally recruits from Nallavonn's slave population. Although the Legion recruits heavily from its new homeworld, it is not a single source. Slaves taken in war against fellow traitors, as well as from the multitude of raids and crusades into the Imperium allow the Sons of Fulgrim a rich selection to choose from.

 **Homeworld-**

After the Imperium's Exterminatus of Chemos during the Great Scouring, the Sons of Fulgrim were broken and scattered. It was in this state that they experienced first the Succession War, then the wider Legion Wars. Dozens of worlds within the Eye of Terror were major bases of the Third Legion, but the III lacked a homeworld. That was until Sakaeron united the III through concluding the Succession War and lessening the Legion Wars. This respite allowed Sakaeron to orchestrate and launch the First Vengeance Crusade in late M31.

Since Sakaeron's reunification of the Third Legion, the new homeworld of the Sons of Fulgrim became the resource-rich world of Nallavonn, base of operations of Sakaeron's since the end of the Heresy. The world is located on the outer edge of the Eye, and therefore has relatively little warp corruption compared to most worlds within the Great Storm, allowing the world's servile population to continuously spawn healthy genetic subjects. From these children the Sons of Fulgrim choose their future warriors.

 **Beliefs-**

Though their father failed in his Heresy, the Third Legion still hold some measure of respect for him. They continue to believe his philosophy of forever pursing perfection. Despite their respect, his sons do acknowledge their father's failures and strive to avoid them. When Fulgrim died without an appointed or even clear successor the Legion was quick to fracture in the ensuing years, culminating in the bloody Succession War.

With Sakaeron's assumption of power, a cult of personality has developed around him. Calling himself the Heir of Fulgrim and the Second War Commander, Sakaeron has established himself as the only true successor to the Phoenician. While the Third Legion is still called the Sons of Fulgrim, many know who the true master of them is and forever will be.

Despite having a strong following amongst his legionnaires and the absolute loyalty of many, as well as the blessing of the Dark Gods, there were some millennia ago who tried to assassinate Sakaeron. The War Commander survived the attempt, and in the ensuing purge called the Harrowing, the Heir solidified his position and none have opposed him on such a scale since.

 **Gene-seed-**

The gene-seed of the Third Legion was once acclaimed for its purity but ten thousand years of Chaos influence has degraded the gene-seed, causing several organs to fail or not work correctly in some Aspirants or working at a reduced capacity. While their degradation of the gene-seed is acknowledged the Sons of Fulgrim gene-seed does remain stable and effective, if not completely pure.

 **Battlecry-**

The original battlecry of the Third Legion when they still fought for the Emperor had been, "Children of the Emperor, death to His foes!" but this changed during the Heresy to, "For the Phoenician!" Since the primarch's death and Sakaeron's rise to power, principal battlecries are, "For Sakaeron!", "For the War Commander!", and "For Chaos!"


	4. The Heir

**The Heir**

"Karaashi Station Command, this is Stormbird A-7, carrying First Captain Julius Kaesoron. We are on approach. Do we have authorisation to enter local space, over?"

 _"Copy, Stormbird A-7,"_ came the expected response. _"Your flight plan has been updated. Proceed to Hangar Bay Four, over."_

"Copy, Station Command. We are proceeding."

The dropship's pilot turned to face his commander. _"Sir, we will be docking in approximately four minutes."_

"Acknowledged," responded Kaesoron. The pilot turned his full attention back to the controls, while Kaesoron stared out the void-shield at the massive behemoth of a space station that dominated the view-screen. He had only been here three times since its construction, and each and every time the sight of Karaashi Station was impossing.

It had the ruggedness and functionality typical of Iron Hand designs, but it had sheer power forged into it. Designed by Ferrus Manus himself in the years following the mass exodus of the Traitor Legions and their allies to the Eye of Terror after the Imperium's Great Scouring, it was a symbol of unchanging strength and iron resolution. For being in the Eye it was, simply, perfect.

But its grand appearance paled in comparison to the reason why Kaesoron was coming to it for the fourth time in three centuries. This station held a very important significance in the Eye: it was neutral territory.

Oh there were dozens of worlds, asteroids, ships, stations and the like that was considered "neutral ground" throughout the Eye, but only this was considered the neutral ground for all of the Traitor Legions, even those that did not call the warp-storm home. From Angron's gladiators to Lorgar's preachers, this was considered safe territory, free of the warfare that plagued the Storm and its inhabitants.

Here, representatives from two or more Legions or warbands could discuss matters in as cordial a manner as it was possible in Hell. The Iron Hands that manned the station, personally chosen by their primarch, were to enforce the rules set down by him:

1\. The commanding Iron Hand officer held rank over all others within the station, barring primarchs.

2\. No more than one warship from any faction was allowed to enter the star system, unless given approval by Manus.

3\. A faction representative could bring no more than four honour guards on board the station.

4\. Only melee weapons were allowed by members not of the Tenth Legion; no ranged weapons.

5\. No violence was to occur without the consent of the Iron Hand commanding officer.

Treaties were made and broken here. Alliances developed and shattered in those bland, grey halls. It allowed what was to occur today a reality. The council of a dying Legion was soon to begin.

The first three councils had been over various topics. The first had been an attempt to select a Legion Master, which failed miserably, leading to the formal fracturing of the Third Legion into hundreds of independent warbands. This began the Succession War.

The second had been an attempt to end the Succession War a century later, which also failed miserably. Their losses in that war, which continued to the present, had allowed them to become weak, easy targets.

The third had taken place shortly after the World Eaters attacked Falzyer, leading to the Legion Wars. In the decades prior to the Legion Wars there had been dozens of skirmishes and conflicts between Legions but nothing larger than a company or warband. The Razing of Falzyer changed that, leading to two centuries of constant war on a scale similar to the Heresy. War that was seeing the slow extinction of the III, he thought sadly.

If only Fulgrim had killed the Emperor and ascended to throne. Then, the Sons of Fulgrim would be the warrior-scions of the most powerful being in the galaxy; a general, a primarch… a god. Alas, it was not to be so. The Emperor killed the War Commander and the Traitor Legions fled from Terra, broken and defeated.

Kaesoron shook his head in remembrance. Now was not the time. Later, perhaps he could meditate and contemplate further, but not now.

Since the Slave Wars began there had been no council here. None held, much less attended, by any warband-companies that comprised the remnants of the Third Legiones Astartes, at least. So when the call for council came, it was a genuine surprise. Leaving his warband to his second-in-command, Kaesoron had taken his flagship and rushed to the unnamed star system that the Karaashi Space Station resided in.

After a three week journey, though it was hard to tell in the Eye, he emerged from the warp into real-space. To be greeted by close to one hundred warships. Some were battered frigates, others fully functional battle-barges. These were the ships that carried their warband's commander.

Kaesoron had done a quick count and knew that dozens of warbands and their leaders were missing. Either they had chosen not to attend or were not invited for various reasons, it did not matter. This before him was the true representation of what leadership the Sons of Fulgrim still had amongst its ranks.

If it were not for the reason the council had been called, Kaesoron would not have attended. But with a new threat, an unknown threat at that, emerging in the Eye of Terror, targeting only Third Legion warbands, it was the wisest, and dare he think it, honour-bound course of action available to them.

Stormbird A-7 entered Hangar Bay Four quickly and efficiently. Kaesoron was late, and he wanted the talks to begin immediately. The ramp lowered with infinite slowness, at least to him, but when it lowered enough he strode out onto the barren plasteel deck.

A welcoming party of Iron Hand legionnaires awaited him. They saluted and bowed their heads in respect, momentarily. One approached Kaesoron, his appearance signalling him to be an Iron Father. This particular blend of Techmarine and Chaplain was known to Kaesoron, for they had served together during the Heresy.

"It is good to see you, Sabik," spoke Kaesoron as he approached the black armoured Astartes.

Sabik Wayland nodded in respect. "The feeling is mutual, First Captain."

As always when someone spoke his official rank, he winced slightly. What was he a first captain of? Nothing more than a broken, dying gene-line where he held little power outside his own warband, it was an embarrassment for him to be called 'First Captain'. Even during the Great Crusade and Heresy, his power had often been side-lined by the Lord Commanders, especially Eidolon, making Kaesoron effectively powerless in the Third's strictly set and designed hierarchy. But he could not admit such weakness, especially to one not of the Third Legion.

"Follow me." Sabik turned around and began striding towards the council chamber. Kaesoron and his four bodyguards followed, the Iron Hand honour guard bringing up the rear.

It took nearly twenty-eight minutes before they made it to the audience chamber's doors.

"Ready?" asked Lycaon, his Equerry, one of the four bodyguards he had brought.

"Always," he replied confidently.

Sabik took this as a cue and pushed open the doors, and stepped forth, bringing his iron-encased staff upon the ground, the sound echoing in the chamber.

"First Captain Julius Kaesoron, commander of the Knights of Chemos Warband, enters."

Kaesoron stepped forward, his men three steps behind as was protocol. All eyes turned towards him. Some were respectful, and some were uncaring, while others were filled with hate. The eyes of Eidolon burned that way.

After a few seconds, the attention turned back to mingling with each other. Generally, captains talked to captains, lord commanders talked to lord commanders with other ranks being side-lined. Instead of moving off to talk to the lord commanders, whom he viewed as a general rule as arrogant even for a son of Fulgrim, he made his way to the outskirts, where low-ranking captains and lieutenant commanders made their talk.

Fulgrim had once told him that the most important information was not always at the heart of things. It was a statement proven true time and time again, he found. His guards remained behind, near the wall, hands on blades though forbidden to draw them. Kaesoron was not worried. Every warlord's guard detail in here was doing the same after all.

Kaesoron's eyes swept the room, noting the warlords present. Captain Tyrion of the Black Sons Warband was talking to Xiander and Hellespon, captains both and leaders of their own warbands. Lord Commanders Anteus and Cyrius were in deep discussion, their movements curt and demeanour sour. He had heard that their two forces had suffered heavily in the last six months against the unknown threat.

He saw dozens of high-ranking officers, warriors he had not seen in decades or centuries, yet here they were. Brought together by fear; how low the Third had fallen.

As he made his way through the crowd, he saw Marius Vairosean, commander of the Kakophoni Warband, standing idly with several other officers. Kaesoron noticed that all of them were devotees of Slaanesh. While the bulk of the Third Legion followed their gene-sire in becoming adherents to Chaos Undivided, some within the III chose one of the Four Gods of Chaos. These sects were generally quite small, but the Sect of Slaanesh was several thousand strong at the height of its power. Recently, it had fallen onto hard times, but still retained enough strength to be a considerable power bloc within the Legion.

Vairosean saw him and smiled a predator's smile, his teeth filed and skin stretched. He was a monster. Not a warrior, but a pleasure and pain seeking monstrosity. Frowning, he moved on, wishing that the entire Slaaneshi Sect would leave, never to return. Perhaps they could join the multitude of V Legion warbands roaming the void. After all, they shared a god.

Something caught his eye as he continued to move further into the crowd. Four Astartes were adorned in Tactical Dreadnought Armor. He noticed they flew the banner of the Flawless Host, Eidolon's warband. Typical, thought Kaesoron. To have a set of Terminator Armor, let alone four, was a display of a warlord's power. Kaesoron himself had eleven, though eight were in use by his Knights in various battlefields. Out of his bodyguard, only his equerry did not sport one as he had little to no training in one. The three that did wear the armour were veterans all.

Kaesoron's spies had reported that Eidolon could field over a score of the precious suits. How he held so many baffled Kaesoron, though as Lord Commander of the First Millennial it was not too hard to fathom where they came from. If one were to truly reunite the Third Legion, there would only be a scant few more than a hundred, such was the state of Fulgrim's gene-line.

Shrugging, he continued.

Servants, dressed in Tenth Legion colours, moved to and fro, providing food and drink. Kaesoron took a green coloured wine and sipped. Sweet and tasty, with an unforgettable aftertaste; he raised an eyebrow as he recognized the vintage: Chemosian Perfection. Impressive, the Iron Hands must have had several bottles on board.

It might be the last remaining bottles of the fine drink left in the galaxy, its particular grapes having died when Chemos burned. Very impressive indeed, he thought. Glancing at Sabik he raised his glass in appreciation. The Medusan nodded politely before moving to another set of doors on the opposite side of the chamber. These led into the council chamber itself.

As he moved through the crowd, Kaesoron heard whispers as he walked by.

"…I heard three ships are missing, no wreckage."

"Impossible, there must have been some."

"Not from what my Techmarines concluded. I even had my Dark Mechanicum Adept enact a scan. His results mirrored mine. It's as if those ships disappeared into thin air."

Kaesoron moved far enough away to where even his hearing could not divulge the responding whisper. To stop in mid-stride would have been seen as suspicious so he continued.

More whispers from others followed.

"…I lost thirty-two brothers in that action…"

"A Word Bearer Host engaged a White Scar raiding fleet recently. It was quite successful for the XVII…"

"The World Eaters broke through Kallyn's Gate and slaughtered Charmosian and his warband, all ninety-two of them."

Informative for sure, but already known to him via his spies, therefore he continued. He trudged on, wanting to find something interesting to grab his attention.

"An Alpha Legion strike force ambushed a Night Lord convoy, taking nearly four million slaves."

Alpha Legion? Night Lord? In the Eye? While it wasn't unheard of, it was certainly rare. Out of the Eight Legions that rebelled, all but the VIII and the XX made the Eye their home. The VIII resided on a world they imaginatively called the World of Shadows, far outside Imperial borders, but close though not inside the Eye. This proximity allowed their terror-fleets to reap glory and prizes within the Storm.

But the Alpha Legion… they almost never came into the Storm, preferring to move constantly throughout the Imperium and staying isolated from the others in their secret, unknown homeworld. Their actions almost always bred more questions than answers.

While indeed quite interesting, the next piece of news he heard is what drew him to three officers talking to each other.

"…that's right. Three star systems in as many weeks. Felker II, Mediah, and Exxastes Minor, all Imperial."

Kaesoron placed himself beside the three Astartes, two were centurions and another was a captain.

"You took three Imperial worlds, you say?

The one that spoke, boasted really, turned and eyes widened at who he saw. Kaesoron could see the centurion wanting to turn around and properly salute and address a superior officer. Discipline and respect for rank ran deep in the III, even in its current state. But the Legion was a Legion in name only, and the centurion had neither reason nor expectation to salute.

Instead a single bob of the head was all that was given. "Aye, Fi- Kaesoron."

"That is impressive. What did you gain from these worlds?"

The centurion's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Seven cargo ships, millions of tons of unprocessed ore, and two hundred and thirty-one thousand slaves," was the answer.

"Ah, that is less impressive." Before the centurion fumed, he continued, "But, you did more damage to the Imperium in three weeks than I have done in three centuries. So, congratulations, Centurion-"

"Thadam, Kaesoron, Centurion Thadam, Silver Spears Warband."

"Hmm. Wasn't the Silver Spears led by Lieutenant Commander Jex?"

"It was until he took a daemon's blade to the cranium."

"That does have a way of preventing continued leadership."

A grunt of humour left Thadam's throat, almost against his will at the dry joke.

A proper response was in development when a loud echo rang through the room three times.

Kaesoron turned his head to see Sabik standing in front of the now opened chamber doors. "Officers of the Third, the time has come for the council to commence. Proceed to the chamber behind me."

Kaesoron and the other largely purple-and-gold Astartes made their way to the directed chamber. The bodyguards of the officers and warlords would wait until their commanders had seated themselves before entering the room.

As the First Captain passed Sabik, his Medusan acquaintance leaned and whispered, "Make the right choice, Julius. You need to."

Before he could question the Iron Father, Kaesoron was surged forward by the press of Astartes behind him. The chamber was large, with simple stone thrones spread throughout. The speaking floor was in the centre, with the stone thrones rising from it. The higher the rank or more powerful the warband, the closer you sat to the bottom floor, near the speakers and the Iron Judge.

Kaesoron made his way to a seat where the lord commanders and several high-ranking, veteran captains were taking their seats. Eidolon and his detail looked at Kaesoron with disgust and sat down as far from him as possible, which might have been unwise due to forcing them to stare at one another from across the circular chamber.

Within minutes, everyone was seated and, from a signal from the Officer of Guard, the chamber quietened. The Iron Judge, representative and voice of Ferrus Manus on the Station rose from his own, raised throne.

"This council hereby begins. As befitting this office, I will declare the reason for this meeting and then ask for several officers here to speak of the recent losses suffered by their forces these past months from an unknown enemy. Is this acceptable?"

All nodded or murmured agreement.

"Good." The Iron Judge looked around the room. "This meeting, called for assembly by Captain Gaeus of the Sublime Stalwarts Warband, is to discuss and figure out the enemy behind the attacks on several Third Legion warbands, leading to significant loss in supplies, slaves, armaments and Astartes."

A pause followed this. Many did not know who had called for the council, nor had any heard of a Captain Gaeus.

"Captain Gaeus, you have the floor."

An Astartes adorned in armour that was in pristine condition, unlike the vast majority of his peers, descended the steps to the floor. In the centre of an Octed symbol, he began to speak.

"Many of you do not know me, this is no surprise. Last time a council was called, I was but a lowly battle-brother. Now, I am captain, successor to Captain Herven, former commander of the Sublime Stalwarts. He died against this unknown threat, he and fourteen of his warriors. The survivors now follow me. But I am not here to speak of this threat, not in the way you anticipate.

"Instead, what I am here for is…" Gaeus took a breath.

"…your submission."

The room erupted into chaos.

* * *

"Order! Order in this chamber! Disruption will see you banned from this Station if you continue!" bellowed the Iron Judge, using a worn but stout metal hammer to quieten the room through its repeating thumping against the Judge's desk. Eventually the room quietened but the underlying anger rose higher and higher.

"Submission?!" barked Eidolon. "You must be mad, captain," he snarled the word. "You have neither the prestige nor rank to even broach that subject."

"It is not I who demands your submission, but rather the Heir of Fulgrim, whom I am honoured to speak for at this council."

The Heir of Fulgrim, thought Kaesoron, hmm, someone is playing a dangerous game with that name. While the succession to Fulgrim had been contested for the past few centuries, none had dared used the title of 'Heir.' It made it almost seem like a legitimate claim, something anathema to a broken Legion led by madmen, demagogues, and pirates.

"The Heir?" Harsh laughter erupted from Commander Galliad of the Seven Swords Warband. "None have the right to claim that title." The legionnaire officer looked around the chamber, contemplating. "I see you have brought nought but a fool's statement here today, Gaeus. You have wasted our time, boy."

Galliad looked around him again. "I say we kill him, send his head back to this 'Heir' of his."

Several Space Marines nodded their agreement at this, noted Kaesoron.

Gaeus' bodyguard descended from their position to establish a protective circle around their lord. Spears readied, with swords close at hand.

Half a dozen warlords stood and laughed at the young captain.

"You will not make it out of here alive, Gaeus," tutted Eidolon. "But, before you leave, who is this Heir Pretender?" The question froze everyone, intent as they were to find out who had been attacking them.

Gaeus' jaw clenched, he was intent not to reveal the name, but an armoured gauntlet rested upon his shoulders by one of his guards. Surprisingly, the captain bowed and took the guard's spear and took position.

Kaesoron leaned forward in his throne, studying the "guard."

He was average height, bulk, and carried himself confidently and he seemed to… emit power, but not be overwhelming with it. More subtle, more dangerous, he thought.

"I am the Heir of Fulgrim," declared the Astartes, his helm's speaker's distorting his voice, yet there was something familiar there. Something he had not heard in a long time, a familiar voice that his memory muddled due to the ebb of time.

"You? Ha! You do not appear to be much," sneered Galliad as he walked down the stone stairs to stand on equal ground. His own guards behind him, two of whom were Terminators.

"Why should we not kill you where you stand?" asked Galliad.

"Because I bring the promise of victory and unity," spoke the Astartes.

Victory and unity; such lofty words, filled with forgotten dreams and broken promises. Those words were usually associated with the hubris of the past, of fading ideals that no longer resonated within the Phoenician's sons. Those dual-ideals, those concepts of victory and unity died in the Imperial Throne Room. It died when their gene-sire was killed by the Emperor's fiery blade and psychic might.

Before the stunned Galliad could speak, Kaesoron stood. After receiving approval from the Iron Judge he stepped onto the floor.

"A question if I may, Heir. What victory and unity is this, hmm? Is it victory in the Succession War, victory in the Legion Wars? Unity of the Legion, I gather? These have been attempted before and all have failed. We are being bled dry by those that we once called allies. Our fortresses number few, our fleets pale reflections of what once was, and our brotherhood is shattered like a poorly made sword. We are cursed."

Kaesoron stood in front of the Astartes, trying to discern the identity behind those red eye-lenses.

The Astartes responded, "What you say is true, of that I will not deny. Our brotherhood is shattered, broken into hundreds of pieces. However," he turned slowly to look at all before him, his voice carrying easily through the chamber, "it can be renewed in the flames of war. The Succession War will end, it is inevitable. The Legion Wars will never truly end, but they can wane and be contained. We can survive this, stronger than before and emerge like a phoenix from the ashes of old, more perfect and more dedicated to our one true goal."

"Which is?" asked the First Captain.

"Vengeance."

Silence reigned. The emotion, the intent, the _hate_ built into that word could only mean vengeance against the empire that they created.

"You're insane," spoke Galliad, disbelievingly. "The Imperium has recovered from the Heresy, its borders defended by the Iron Cages, protected by countless billions of Guardsman and over two hundred Space Marine Chapters. Not to mention it has several primarchs alive and well, vigilantly protecting the False Emperor's Domain. It has the resources, the manpower, and the will to forever keep us out. There is simply nothing we can do against that! Nothing but raid and pillage undefended star systems and small squadrons of warships! Our best chance was washed away when our father died."

The Heir looked at the disbelieving Space Marine and shook his head. "I knew you to be weak, Galliad, but I never knew you to be a coward." Faster than the eye could properly track, the Heir pulled a throwing knife from a scabbard across his chest. He threw the sharp blade, it darted across the room, impaling deep into Galliad's skull, killing him instantly. The leader of the Seven Swords fell to his knees and after a moment, fell face down, blood spreading from the corpse.

The chamber was shocked. The warlord's guards looked at their fallen commander with mute disbelief. A death had been caused and without permission from the Iron Judge. This had never happened before. Not even a Berserker of the World Eaters or a psychopath of the Night Lords would do something so foolish, so brazen. Many looked towards the dozens of Iron Hand legionnaires that circled the room, arms carrying bolters and waists carrying combat blades, swords and axes.

All were held at ease, none moved to arrest the Heir.

Realisation dawned on Kaesoron. This was planned in conjunction with the Iron Tenth. "Who are you?" he moved closer. The Heir's guards turned to meet him, but the Heir motioned them aside.

"Who are you?" he repeated.

The Heir looked at Kaesoron for several seconds. Hands went to the helmet's neck seals, unlocking them. Pressurised air hissed at it was released. When the helm was lifted off, the face of the warrior beneath the helm was easy to recognise. He had been Lord Commander of the Second Millennial during the Heresy and had schemed and stole from his brothers over Chemos when the Scouring's fires of retribution roared through the Imperium. Kaesoron heard mutters of, "Impossible," "It can't be," "He's supposed to be dead," and so forth. Eidolon hissed the legionnaire's rightfully earned moniker, "Deceiver."

As the Heir mag-locked the helm to his belt, Kaesoron stared into the violet eyes of Tyberius Sakaeron.

"It is I, brother. Surprised to see me?" Sakaeron lips twitched in genuine humour. Turning to look at the assembly around him, he spoke.

"Brothers, I have returned to lead you in the Long War against the Imperium, a war that has been muted for far too long. Many of you believed me to be dead, or that I merely cowered in the Eye after I left Chemos. But I am clearly not dead and I was not idle. I have found us a new home, a new Chemos if you will. There I have assembled and built a mighty fleet and replenished much of our ranks. I have made alliances with other warbands and come to an understanding with many others."

The lack of reaction by the Iron Hands represented proof of that.

"I have come to you to ask you to join me. I ask this only once, for I will never ask you again. Join me in ending these bouts of pointless internecine warfare. Join me in tearing down the Imperium and installing ourselves as the true rulers of the empire we built with our blood, sweat, and toil. Join me and become something greater than you currently are. Join me and pursue vengeance. I am the Heir of Fulgrim and therefore the Second War Commander. I will finish what our father started. Who will stand by me?"

Some rose from their thrones, arms pressed to the breastplate in salute. "I do. Hail Sakaeron."

"Hail," returned the Deceiver.

A moment passed, and a third of the chamber stood in allegiance. Kaesoron noted Galliad's former bodyguards now stood beside Sakaeron whom turned his gaze to Kaesoron.

"Julius, what is your answer?"

Kaesoron's mind went to what Sabik had told him earlier. _Make the right choice, Julius. You need to._

Join him or kill him. Join or kill? Kneel or murder? Kaesoron gripped his sword, and in one fluid motion pulled it from his scabbard and stuck it into the stone floor, his hands resting on its pommel.

"I am yours, War Commander." He bowed his head.

"Good, brother. That was the right decision." Sakaeron looked around the chamber, frowning at how many refused to bend the knee. "I had hoped there would be more, but we have more than enough."

Eidolon spat on the floor. "I will never join you, Deceiver. You abandoned us when you were needed most. Stealing our lord father's corpse and his flagship… Where exactly is the flagship? Where is the _Pride of Chemos_?" demanded Eidolon.

Sakaeron smiled a cold smirk. "She is here."

Kaesoron never knew how the War Commander did it, no matter how much he asked in later years. Sakaeron would always give a knowing smile and refuse an answer. Right as he spoke, "She is here," a wound in reality formed close to Karaashi Station, visible through the thick armoured glass windows that dominated the chamber, close enough for the entire chamber to witness the _Pride of Chemos_ with a dozen capital ships and scores of escorts emerge from the warp like predator-hunters from the deepest, dangerous oceans. It was perfectly synchronised.

As the chamber looked on in awe as the massive Gloriana-class warship passed the station, Kaesoron noticed Sakaeron pressing a rune upon his gauntlet, a red rune blinking then turning sapphire green.

The back of his tongue began to itch; the air wavered and reeked of ozone. It could mean only one thing.

Teleportation.

With a thunderclap roar, forty Astartes teleported inside the chamber, warp-residue steaming off their armour as they took position around Sakaeron and those that pledged to him. Not only were the forty legionnaires armed with bolters, storm bolters and flamers, but all wore Terminator Armour. And there was not a single casualty, not one.

Kaesoron had not seen so many Terminator suits in such a small area since the Siege of Terra. It was a wonder. The near hundred officers and their guards backed away from the centre. The Iron Hands stopped them with their bolters pointed.

"Orders, War Commander?" asked the Iron Judge.

"Kill them."

A bolter was known to be loud. It was not a silent weapon of war. Not like the dagger of the Officio Assasinorum nor the lasgun of the Imperial Guard. It roared and clacked as it fired. It was meant to brutally kill, and kill brutally it did.

Forty Sons of Fulgrim Terminators and nearly seventy Iron Hands unleashed their gunfire on those that refused to follow Sakaeron. Some were quick and rushed the Iron Hands, engaging them in hand-to-hand, the guards sacrificing themselves so their leader could flee. Kaesoron watched as Eidolon disappeared in a flare of teleportation activity. He must have had a transponder on him, his ship waiting for a signal to teleport him out at a moment's notice. Eidolon was many things, but he was not stupid. His ship must have had its teleport coils primed and warmed.

The others, though, were not so lucky. Within moments, all that refused the War Commander lay dead, their blood painting the stark grey stone red. The Iron Hands departed the room, all but the Judge and Sabik.

Sakaeron dismissed the Terminators, all but ten who took their place near their lord. The War Commander placed a vox-bead in his ear. "Report."

Kaesoron could hear static and words, but not clearly. After a moment, the Heir frowned.

"What is it?" Kaesoron asked.

"Eidolon successfully fled. His ship was ready to withdraw quickly. But other than him and a few others, this little operation was a complete success. The warlords who died here left me their flagships and it is likely most of their legionnaires will join me in due time. A new age is upon us. An age of renewed brotherhood and revenge, my, how long I have waited and planned," Sakaeron paused for a moment, processing this success.

The War Commander looked at the Iron Judge and Sabik. "I thank you and your primarch for allowing this to occur. I shall pay back this debt in due time."

The two Iron Hands bowed their heads. "The Gorgon wishes to see the Legion Wars fade, and the war against the Imperium renewed. He believed you to be the best chance of this happening," explained Sabik.

"Tell Lord Manus that he is right, and soon I will launch a vast crusade into the Imperium. The Cages cannot and have not covered everything. There are ways through the cracks."

The two Iron Hands bowed again and departed with farewells.

As they left a tear in space and time opened behind Sakaeron. Kaesoron readied his sword.

"At ease, brother, these are my men, my new brothers."

The two Astartes that stepped through were of different Legions. One wore the deep blue and gold armour of the Thousand Sons, the other the black and white of pre-Heresy Dark Angels. Kaesoron looked to Sakaeron with an eyebrow raised.

"Former Calibanite Independent, but he left them shortly after the destruction of Caliban. He disdains Luther almost as much as the Lion and the Emperor." The black armoured Astartes nodded at this.

"Where are my manners? Julius Kaesoron this is Iskandar Khayon and Merir Astelan. Two of my most able advisors and loyal brothers, they have been with me for some years now, helping me ready all that is to come. In the Long War, we are all brothers, no matter the bloodline or heraldry."

The three Astartes exchanged pleasantries.

"Now that you are all here, kneel."

Khayon and Astelan did so without hesitation. Kaesoron had not knelt before another since before his father perished. He found it odd at first, but his kneepad hit the stone floor only a second after the first two.

Sakaeron accepted a weapon from one of his Terminators. It was a Guardian-Spear of the Legio Custodes, now the Adeptus Custodes. But this one was still gold and red, showing it belonged to a Custodian when the Emperor still walked amongst the stars. Resting the blade against Astelan's left shoulder-pad, Sakaeron began to speak.

"Merir Astelan, former Dark Angel, former Independent, you shall from henceforth be my Force Commander of the Phertalien. Though you and they may not bear the gene-seed of Fulgrim, you have proven yourself worthy. You are to become a founding member of the Tyberkenna. Tomorrow you will don the livery of the Third Legion, all but this shoulder-pad which is to remain void-black to reflect your past."

Astelan bowed his head in acknowledgement. Sakaeron moved to Khayon and placed the Spear's blade upon his left shoulder-pad.

"Iskandar Khayon, former Thousand Sons, former mercenary, you shall from henceforth be my First Sorcerer, leader of all those with psychic ability. Though you may not bear the gene-seed of Fulgrim, you have proven yourself worthy. You are to become a founding member of the Tyberkenna. Tomorrow you will don the livery of the Third Legion, all but this shoulder-pad which is to be void-black to reflect your past."

Khayon bowed his head as well. Sakaeron came to him and placed his spear on the left shoulder-pad.

"Julius Kaesoron, First Captain and fellow Son of Fulgrim, you will no longer be called by First Captain, that rank was useless and meaningless in the old Legion, rather you shall be Lord Captain-Commander of the First Millennial of my new Sons of Fulgrim. You will be my second-in-command. You are to become a founding member of the Tyberkenna. Tomorrow you will repair and repaint your armour."

The War Commander stepped back. He planted the base of the Spear onto the ground, causing it to echo in the stone chamber.

"Rise, my brothers, and become heralds of the new age."

They rose as one, the first of Sakaeron's Tyberkenna looking at their lord and brother and all began to imagine the wars they would wage together.


	5. Iron Warriors

**Iron Warriors – An Imperium of Iron**

 _"The Iron Warriors hold the line when no others can. The scions of Perturabo have for millennia protected the borders of the Imperium from xenos, rebels, heretics and worse. From the opening act of the Fulgrimian Heresy to its fiery end, the Iron Warriors held steadfast to the Emperor's dream. Though His Most Holy Majesty no longer walks among us, His Astartes continue to do so and all feel safer knowing that the Iron Warriors and their Successor Chapters roam the stars and guard the gateways that lead from Hell itself."_

-History of the Imperium, Adeptus Astartes, Volume XXVII

 **Origins-**

Throughout the Imperium of the 41st Millennium, few worlds are as well defended as Olympia. Home of the Iron Warriors Chapter, and centre of a vast military industry, Olympia churns out weapons, vehicles, and warships for the hallowed Space Marine Chapter. The world is a beacon of unity and order in an ever-growing galaxy of chaos and war, an exemplary example to all within the Emperor's Realm.

But it was not always so.

The world that would become legend was once locked in war, forever unchanging due to the dangerous and difficult to navigate mountainous geography. It was upon this politically and militarily fractured planet that the Fourth Primarch landed upon.

Many accounts of the primarch's discovery and early years has been lost to history, but several reports have survived and been maintained by the Chapter. These detail that when the primarch fell to Olympia, he spent many months in outlying settlements, learning language and human interaction. The local ruler, bearing the title of Tyrant, dispatched hundreds of soldiers to find the young boy. The boy-primarch, having tired of being chased, climbed the domineering mountain peaks of the city-state of Lochos, daring to face his pursuers head on. At the peak of the tallest mountain, the primarch announced himself as Perturabo and demanded an audience with the Tyrant, which was quickly given.

It was here that the Tyrant Dammekos, impressed with the demigod's intelligence and fortitude, offered a position to Perturabo in the Tyrant's own court. Perturabo would be his foster son and learn the ways of war, science, culture and politics. He would only have to swear loyalty and service to Dammekos, which the Fourth Primarch did after only the slightest of hesitations. In this environment, gifted with the highest of patronage on Olympia, Perturabo quickly absorbed knowledge across all fields, particularly in military and technological areas of interest. From the mind of Dammekos' foster son came new innovations in weaponry and industry, new and improved tactics, and peerless application and execution of military campaigns. Within only a few years Perturabo had become the premier general of the Tyrant's armies, bearing the title of Lord of Iron, bequeathed upon him by the Tyrant, and began the conquest of Olympia.

For centuries Olympia had been locked in a stalemated global war. Frontlines would change with minuscule difference. The city-states themselves rarely experienced war, much less witnessed it. This all changed with the primarch's arrival. Wherever the Lochosian general marched, city-states trembled in fear. When Perturabo would approach a city or fortress he would give the defenders a single chance to surrender, swearing that no harm would come to the defendants, but if they refused him then they would suffer his wrath. Many bowed before him, choosing life over certain death. What few resisted, either led by madmen or fools, was taken by force, leaving tens of thousands of defenders slaughtered without mercy.

At the end of his multi-year campaign, upon the conclusion of the final siege against the last remaining rival fortress-city, news reached the Lord of Iron that a coup had occurred in Lochos and that Dammekos lay murdered, slain by his advisors, advisors who had long been envious of Perturabo's favoured position in their government and his continuous military successes. Though the Lord of Iron and the Tyrant were never quite cordial between one another, there was indeed a sense of respect or at least an understanding. It was unspoken, but known by all that Perturabo was to be Dammekos' heir, and with the Tyrant's health declining, many saw Perturabo's ascension to sole absolute leader of Olympia as inevitable. The many nobles that trailed in Perturabo's shadow were afraid of what would happen to their lofty positions when Perturabo came to power. While Dammekos turned a blind eye to all but the most blatant corruption and greed within his government, Perturabo would not allow such deeds to go unmonitored or unpunished

Perturabo gathered his well-trained, disciplined army and marched to Lochos. The rebel nobles had hoped that the primarch would be unable to break through the stout fortifications of their city, ignoring the fact that the defences of the city-state had been reinforced and expanded by Perturabo himself shortly before departing for conquest and that he knew them better than any other. As the Lord of Iron approached the city, he prepared detailed plans to quickly storm the city and reclaim it. Fortunately for the common citizens of Lochos he did not have to enable such plans. As the armies approached the city, the defending garrison, many of whom were unwilling participants in the coup, threw down their arms and opened the gates for Perturabo and his soldiers. The rebel nobles, cornered and afraid, pleaded to be granted mercy. Perturabo gave none.

" _Mercy, my lord, please have mercy," begged the noble, whose silk robes were soaked with sickly sweat and foul urine._

 _Perturabo stood above him, weapon in hand. His sword dripped thickly with the blood of those that had been killed by it since he arrived to the Tyrant's Palace. Some were blindly loyal soldiers and bodyguards to the inept rebel nobility, but the vast majority were the aristocrats themselves. They had hunkered in the Great Hall, hoping that he would be merciful. He was, after a fashion. They were dying quickly._

 _The ringleader of the coup quivered below him. A rank stench emitted from him, a mixture of fear, sweat and human waste._

 _"Mercy?" he said quietly, his rage only under control through strict discipline. He raised his sword. "This is my mercy." The sword decapitated the noble, the head spinning in the air only to thud against a column and came to lay beside the corpses of his fellow conspirators._

 _Perturabo trudged up the steps leading to the Tyrant's Throne. He almost sat in it but did not. He had seen Dammekos sit here, a wise man in many ways but still weak, a man who put himself before others, before his own city-state. Thrones similar to this had resided in every city-state, all torn down by him when they either surrendered or were conquered. He would not be a second Dammekos, he would not be just another tyrant to the people, his people. Instead, reaching with both hands, he grasped the finely woven throne of office and heaved, breaking it from its foundation and heaved it to the side where it broke against the stone wall, chips of stone falling to the ground._

 _Gasps came from behind. Turning slowly, he saw his officers and bodyguards standing amidst the carnage. The deaths did not faze them; they had known what their lord and general would do. But to topple the Tyrant's Throne, a symbol of government that had stood for centuries, if not millennia, was a shock to them._

 _"I have inherited the power and responsibility of Tyrant from my father. I have earned the loyalty and respect of the army through my campaigning. I have created many wonders to better the lives of the people. I am no Tyrant. No, I am your king, the Iron King of Olympia. And I bring you a golden age."_

 _All present knelt before their new monarch._

With the principal coup leaders now dead, Perturabo created a new title to distance itself with the negativity surrounding the word of Tyrant and declared himself the Iron King of Olympia. The first act of the Iron King was that he removed the old Lochos Garrison's command structure, replacing it with one more loyal to him. As for a lesson to all who might become rebel on his world, he took the parents and firstborn son or daughter of every noble family that betrayed him and executed them personally on the steps of the Hall of Justice, showing that any betrayal would be met harshly and unflinchingly. While this did subdue the surviving rebels into compliance, it would lay the seeds of anger and usurpation that would sprout in the beginning of the Great Heresy many years later.

Months after Perturabo's reclamation of Lochos and establishment of him as king, the Emperor arrived to Olympia with a vast fleet of a thousand warships. As Olympia's impressive assembly of weapons turned to the sky, aiming at the ships that began to pierce the atmosphere, they were all ordered to stand down. Perturabo felt a psychic pulse coming from the fleet, something familiar that compelled him to not unleash a barrage. Thus, the Emperor's dropship landed in front of the newly renamed Grand Palace and father met son.

Upon their first meeting, Perturabo knew the imposing being before him to be his true father and kneeled in subservience. While he pledged his loyalty to the Emperor, Perturabo was not fully convinced the Emperor's methods were the most effective. To rectify this and to prepare him for command of a Space Marine Legion, the Emperor had Perturabo accompany Him back to Terra to convince the newly found primarch of His intentions with the Imperium.

There, on the Cradle of Mankind, the Fourth Primarch met the Fifteenth Primarch: Magnus the Red. Both primarchs, acknowledging their interest in history and desire for progression of the human race, accompanied each other for much of Perturabo's time on the Throneworld. Despite the Iron King focusing on technological progression and the Crimson King focusing on the psychic and spiritual, both became friends and close confidants. The two primarchs' months together would be a bright moment of remembrance for them from a better time.

Eventually, the needs of the Great Crusade grew too great and Magnus was called away to lead his Thousand Sons into war. While Perturabo was saddened to see his Prosperian brother go, he was pleased to know that another had arrived. Horus Lupercal, First Found and a fellow warrior, arrived to Terra to meet his newest sibling. The two befriended each other quickly and spent many weeks discussing military strategy and the future of the Imperium. It was during this time with his brothers that Perturabo became convinced that the Imperium was for the betterment of Mankind. Perturabo knew both Magnus and Horus were favoured sons of the Emperor and knew they reflected His ideals. While Magnus showed that cultural and philosophical advancement were prized, Horus instead showed that only the strong and competent would rule, allowing the Imperium to endure and prosper. Due to the time spent on Terra and with his brothers Perturabo became convinced of the good intentions of the Emperor and realised that in a galaxy such as they lived in that the Imperium was the best hope for Mankind to not only endure but also to dominate all before it. The Lord of Olympia came to the conclusion that the Emperor was no dictator or demagogue like those he had seen on his homeworld and was worthy of loyalty.

At the end of Perturabo's time on humanity's homeworld, the Lord of Iron was finally presented with his Legion. Assembling before him in full strength, the Fourth Legion awaited review by their primogenitor. What Perturabo saw before him were disappointments in his harsh analytical eye. The IV had proven adept so far in the Emperor's dream of Unity throughout the galaxy, yet the poorly-executed Liberation of Incaladion weighed heavily upon Perturabo's new sons. The campaign had left scars upon the psyche of the IV, scars that threatened to remain if not dealt with. Perturabo, after a thorough review of the Legion's history, combat records and doctrines decided that the IV was wanting. To rectify this, Perturabo stated there would a campaign that would "purge the impurities within our ranks, leaving only the strongest."

The campaign was to be against an alien species in the Meratara Cluster, self-styled the Black Judges. Here the Fourth Legion would redeem themselves for their past failures and prove themselves worthy to their father. The Meratara Cluster Campaign would last for a year and was notable for how brutal and wide-spread in destructiveness it was. The Fourth Legion, relentless in their pursuit of the xenos, had by campaign's end laid waste to an interstellar empire, with billions of humans freed from xenos enslavement. The Fourth's losses were heavy, over ten percent of the then seventy thousand Astartes had died in the war, but the Lord of Iron was pleased and impressed with those that carried his gene-seed.

 _"Through strife and warfare we have purified the Legion. No longer chained to failure and doubt, we have freed our bodies and our minds. We are more than paragons of the Emperor's dream of Unity; we are its creators and defenders. We are the soldiers and guardians that will forever protect the Imperium from threats abroad. At the beginning of this campaign, you knelt before me as legionnaires of the Fourth Legion, nameless and unsure. Now, you will rise before me as dutiful sons, ready to cast down any foe and forever do what must be done. Rise, my sons. Rise, my Iron Warriors."_

-Perturabo's renaming of the Fourth Legion following their victory in the Meratara Cluster Campaign.

Thusly renamed the newly christened Iron Warriors returned to the wider Great Crusade as soldiers of conquest and breakers of empire.

 **Great Crusade-**

During the Great Crusade, the Iron Warriors were called upon time after time to break through enemy strongholds with artillery and mass assault, tear down enemy empires with firm persistence, and defend against waves of enemies with flawless determination, and establish justice and order to a galaxy marred in bloodshed and chaos. Perturabo and his Legion gained a reputation as highly proficient siege-masters and known to be effective occupying newly compliant worlds with seditious populations.

As the Great Crusade neared its 150th anniversary, the Emperor and his sons met to discuss the next phase of the Crusade. While future operations and offensives were discussed and planned, the most heated debate was of garrisoning. The Imperium had expanded and conquered faster than any had predicted, possibly even faster than the Emperor Himself had, but the Emperor and His sons agreed they could not curtail operations nor temporarily halt the Crusade. They all agreed that the Crusade must continue for Imperial morale, for momentum and to find the remaining missing primarchs. There were difficulties in continuing at the current pace, namely that the Legiones Astartes were being spread too thinly as each Legion was having to delegate more and more of their legionnaires to garrison key worlds and vital supply depots, limiting the available Astartes manpower for Expeditionary Fleets and compliance actions.

Many solutions were quickly recommended and just as swiftly discarded. As the argument between the primarchs escalated, Perturabo stepped forward and proposed a solution. The Fourth Primarch, frustrated by his brothers' arguments did what he knew had to be done for the betterment of the Imperium. The Iron King volunteered his own Legion to be the dominant occupying force on the Imperium's newly compliant worlds. The Emperor agreed and the council was concluded. Several primarchs thought Perturabo's decision wise and honourable, though some such as Fulgrim and Mortarion thought the duty beneath a primarch. Those that lauded him on his decision were Guilliman, Angron, Lorgar, Horus, Sanguinius, and to the surprise of all, Dorn.

The Primarch of the Imperial Fists had a very competitive and somewhat icy relationship with Perturabo, both trying to outdo the other for decades. Dorn thought Perturabo dour and bitter while the Lord of Iron thought Dorn glory-seeking and arrogant. Despite these opinions of the other, both primarchs acknowledged the skills and strengths of the other, openly respecting them and throughout the Great Crusade the two played off their strengths for the advancement of the Imperium. But it was during the council over planetary garrisons and Perturabo's decision to bear such a burden willingly that Dorn came to realise how selfish both had been, particularly he. The Primarch of the Seventh Legion publically apologised to Perturabo in front of their brothers and father about his actions and demeanour towards Perturabo and the entirety of the Fourth Legion.

Stunned for but a moment, Perturabo accepted the apology and gave one himself. Dorn then surprised his brother again by offering that a third of the worlds that the Fourth Legion would garrison could instead be garrisoned by the Seventh Legion to free up enough Astartes and ships for the Iron Warriors to continue campaigning on a large-scale, albeit in a somewhat limited capacity. Perturabo accepted and the two primarchs embraced for the first time and their friendship born.

Such was the regard between the two brothers that when the Emperor asked Dorn and his Fists to return with Him to Terra to fortify the Throneworld the new Praetorian asked Perturabo for a liaison from the IV to assist with designs and fortification but more importantly to provide a critical eye and an unbiased opinion. It would offer a fresh set of eyes, experienced in their craft, to help make the Palace ever more formidable. The Lord of Iron chose one of his favoured sons, Warsmith Barabas Dantioch, to be the liaison officer between the Fourth and Seventh Legions. Dantioch would depart with Dorn for Terra with his battalion. Not only would Dorn arrive to Terra with Iron Warriors to assist, he arrived with a symbol of office created personally by Perturabo, a weapon of lethality and presence: the Praetorian Sword.

In the final years of the Great Crusade the Fourth Legion had successfully garrisoned and integrated many hundreds of worlds into the Imperial fold, freeing up significant amounts of Space Marines for compliance actions, allowing more and more legionnaires to return to the frontlines. With the Lord of Iron at all times during the Crusade were thirty thousand Iron Warriors, a sixth of their Legion, while the remainder were campaigning elsewhere with Expeditionary Fleets or garrisoning worlds still proving troublesome.

When word reached the Iron King of Horus' wounding on Davin and quick dispatch to Terra, Perturabo feared the worst and made way to the Throneworld to oversee his brother's fate. Leaving a third of his fleet under the command of Warsmith Harkor, one of his advisory Triarchs, to continue prosecuting a campaign in progress, the Lord of Iron brought with him an honour guard twenty thousand strong. The Fourth Son arrived to Terra several months behind schedule due to increasingly difficult warp currents and devastatingly sporadic warp storms. Before his journey to the Sol System all was well in the Imperium, but when he emerged from the Immaterium the reality he faced angered him to the core.

Terra had been psychically assaulted by Magnus, wiping out the Astropathic Choir, causing communications with the rest of the Imperium to become tenuous. Millions had died in their sleep due to intense psychic backlash. Not only had the warrant for the Crimson King's arrest been given to the Space Wolves, but an Imperial Armada led by Sanguinius had been assembled and sent after Konrad Curze who had finally gone too far in his butchery, going rogue and murdering billions of Imperial innocents.

Perturabo met with his brother Horus, relieved to see him alive, though the Warmaster was quite weak. The two primarchs, alongside Mortarion and Dorn, spent days in council, discussing the repercussions that would follow Magnus' and Curze's actions. As the four primarchs continued their discussions, the impending outcome was becoming all too real that one Legion, likely two, would be removed from Imperial records and two more plinths in the Investiary would become empty. With the Emperor secluded and rarely communicative, the four primarchs agreed to ready Terra for whatever might come. Mortarion and the thousand Astartes he brought with him would scour the Throneworld, assisted by Sisters of Silence, hunting down psykers that had gone mad by the Crimson King's actions. Dorn would expedite the fortification of the Palace, as well as preparing Terra and much of the rest of the Sol System itself for any possibility that might come to pass.

A month would pass after Perturabo's arrival when grim news reached the Throneworld. The Space Wolves had attacked Prospero without authorisation, razing it to the ground. Though little could be communicated with the Wolf King, Russ did report that Magnus and thousands of his sons had escaped extermination, fleeing to deep space. Russ stated that the Sixth Legion would follow and finish what they had started. On the heels of this came even more dire news: Fulgrim, in conjunction with several of his primarch brothers, had betrayed the Imperium, purging their Legions on Bellanor whilst also massacring the Death Guard, Salamanders and Blood Angels. Further news of Fulgrim being named War Commander of the Traitor Legions spread like wildfire across the galaxy. As the Imperium found itself in a civil war, astropathic communiques from Olympia reached the Fourth Primarch of a rebellion on his homeworld. A rebellion led by the descendants of the rebel nobles from the first rebellion and, more disturbingly, by Iron Warriors themselves.

 **The Heresy-**

While Fulgrim's treachery spread its cancerous tendrils throughout the Imperium, Perturabo swore an oath to the Emperor and brothers on Terra that he would delay the traitors. He and his sons would stall their advance long enough to allow the Imperial Fists to strengthen the Sol System's defences sufficiently. Before his departure the Lord of Iron detailed fifteen thousand Astartes to remain behind for other duties. Five thousand under Warsmith Dantioch would remain on Terra to help the Imperial Fists in their fortification of the Throneworld and elsewhere if need be. Ten thousand Iron Warriors under the command of Warsmith Erasmus Golg, another of Perturabo's Triarchs, were sent to accompany the Imperial Fists to Mars to purge the Red Planet of those that dared turned their back on the Emperor. The Schism of Mars would last the entirety of the Heresy and would see much of the Martian surface become razed by large-scale warfare. With these welcome additions to Imperial forces in the Sol System, Perturabo departed quickly for Olympia to quell the rebellion on his homeworld.

By the time Perturabo entered the Olympian System the rebellion had been contained by the loyal Iron Warrior garrison. Contained but not defeated. The primarch descended to the surface to take direct command. Lochos, his capital city and city where he had been raised, was held by a large rebel army numbering over a million plus fifty Iron Warriors that spat on their oaths of loyalty and duty. Cold fury would drive the Lord of Iron to declare the he would defeat the rebels and kill all his wayward sons, only after they confessed as to why they had betrayed him.

In one of the rare occurrences throughout the Iron Warriors history, there was to be no attempt at peace or reciprocity before battle was met, no attempt in allowing the enemy to surrender. The Siege of Lochos lasted only a single day as it was thousands of Iron Warriors with several million Imperial Army soldiers in support versus the rebel forces. When the walls of Lochos finally crumbled under the unending artillery fire and aerial bombings the Iron Warriors, led by their gene-sire, surged through, killing all that stood in their way. Within hours the entirety of the city had surrendered except the Grand Palace, defended by the traitor legionnaires. Perturabo and his honour guard broke through the defences and quickly eliminated the traitor Space Marines. But the dead legionnaires before him were no sons of Perturabo as gene-testing would prove. The dead traitors were not Iron Warriors at all, but rather Alpha Legion Astartes, infiltrators that had nurtured the traitorous thoughts of the nobles from the first rebellion.

 _He looked on with disgust. The bodies that lay before him wore the armour that was of his sons, but the bodies were of a brother's sons._

 _"Alpharius." The name dripped with hate and anger. Clenching his jaw, Perturabo studied the infiltrators. They had been too few in number and their rebellion was a failure from the start, what with so many IV legionnaires already on Olympia._

 _Why draw him here? He had planned to rendezvous with Harkor and from there journey to the Seidwin Worlds where the Sons of Fulgrim were making their presence known. But now he was here and contact with Harkor's fleet was lost._

 _Walking from the battle-scarred chamber he strode towards his private sanctum, his honour guard following obediently. As he walked, his mind calculated probability and strategies to come._

 _He would recall as many legionnaires as he could. Olympia had the supplies necessary to restock any who would hear the call. From here he could strike quickly at a dozen traitor fleets, and half a hundred worlds. Cadallia and Zenfur would need to be reinforced; they lay in the path of one of the main traitor armadas. Dirgo Prime and Aalana were important as well; both worlds had enough fuel to field a hundred Imperial Army divisions for a year. Secure the fuel if possible, if not, then deny them to the enemy._

 _Even with the Dropsite Massacre at Bellanor, the traitors were still outnumbered in every field. If significant traitorous elements of the Army could be made ineffective or immobilised that would force the rebel Astartes to…_

 _He stopped in the middle of the corridor, eyes scanning his surroundings. Something was wrong. His honour guard stopped with him, having him centred in a protective ring._

 _"My lord, what is it?" asked the captain of the guard._

 _The hallway was deep in the war-torn Grand Palace, dozens of scribes and Palace servants scurried to and fro, hurrying to accomplish their varying tasks._

 _"My lord?"_

 _"Treachery," Perturabo muttered._

 _As if his word had been the signal, over half of the scribes and servants lifted their robes to reveal black body-armour, pistols and compact blades. They twenty or so assailants rushed Perturabo and his ten legionnaires._

 _"Assassins! Iron Warriors, protect the primarch!" yelled the captain. Bolters were raised, chainswords revved and the two forces converged._

 _At a glance, the human assassins stood little chance for they were merely human and not transhuman like Astartes. But these were no normal men; the Iron King could see that. They moved like vipers, dodging bolter fire, using reactions heightened by gene-enhancements and years of brutal training regimes. Perturabo recognised the signs: agents of the Officio Assassinorum._

 _Astartes fought Assassins, both dying. Five Assassins broke through the circle of legionnaires, jumping over a legionnaire corpse. Perturabo drew his bolt pistol, firing two bolts at a larger Assassin, clearly of the Eversor Clade due to his size and drug-filled blood-crazed look in his eyes. The Assassin fell, his brain having taken a bolt shot in it and exploded, showering his comrades in grey and red gore._

 _The others were too close and Perturabo dropped the pistol, drawing sword and met the four that charged him. The Lord of Iron's analytical eye took in every detail before their blades met. Two more were Eversor brutes. One, bearing a face that shimmered as it fluctuated like rippled water, marked her as a Callidus, whilst the final was hard to register. She rushed him, eyes blank, face calm, and he felt unease as if she wasn't there. A Culexus, then._

 _Meeting them, Perturabo struck an Eversor in the neck, nearly decapitating him, his head hanging on by centimetres of flesh and tendon. The Callidus jumped at him. Dodging, he backhanded the changer, caving in her skull. The other Eversor swung a heavy axe, cutting into Perturabo's armour, nicking flesh and blood began to drip onto the marble floor. Raising his wrist-mounted bolter, the Lord of Iron unleashed fury against the Assassin, shredding the bulking brute to bloodied meat and broken bone. The last Assassin, the pariah, moved quickly whilst Perturabo pulled the Eversor's bloodied axe from his chest._

 _Pain almost blinded him, the blood leaking from his armour coloured black._

 _Poison, he thought. His body began to go numb, paralysed as the poison spread and his Emperor-forged body combated it, slowing his movements. The pariah raised her own sword, blade undoubtedly coated with more poison._

 _Perturabo trembled. Not with fear or taut nerves, but with rage. He roared as he forced his body to move, forced his tightening muscles to obey. It seemed slow to him, at first. But then, everything moved slowly. The Assassin's blade fell glacially, but was closing._

I will not die. I will NOT! _Fury overrode poison and his gauntleted fist surged forward and clutched the pariah's throat. Squeezing, he felt her throat constricting, air being cut off. Her eyes continued to meet his, unwavering as her face began to darken._

 _"Tell me, who is your master, Assassin?" he rasped. His body was burning, purging itself of the poison. He would be in pain for some time but pain could be ignored._

 _The pariah continued to stare at him._

 _"Who? He demanded. It could not have been the Grand Master of the Assassins, the man, whoever he was, was utterly loyal to the Emperor. When word reached Terra of the Dropsite Massacre whispers in Palace hinted that hundreds of Assassins had been dispatched to stiffen Imperial support in some sectors, while in others eliminating traitor sympathisers._

 _The Assassin stared at him, a smile touching her purple-black lips. "Hail Fulgrim, the True Emperor of Mankind."_

 _In a fit of rage he ripped her head from its socket, spine pulled out with the head. Annoyed, he threw it down, and looked around him. Seven of his ten were dead; the other three were wounded and stood around him protectively. The sound of armoured boots echoed as entire platoons came to the aid of their primogenitor._

 _Perturabo looked at them, and glanced at the wound on his chest. The bleeding had stopped; the wound was already healing, the poison having been beaten and purged. Turning to continue towards his sanctum, he spoke over the vox._

 _"This is the Iron King," he began. "I want all captains and warsmiths to the Primary Briefing Chamber in one hour. Lieutenants and sergeants lead your units and do a sweep by sweep of the entire city, leave no stone unturned. Beware; the Arch-Traitor has Assassinorum allies. If found, attempt to capture. If unable, kill them all. I want Orbital Command to…"_

 _His temporary bodyguard, numbering hundreds, escorted him all the while he distributed orders._

Following the pacification of the rebellion and surviving an assassination attempt, Perturabo ordered all that had partook to be executed, including the entirety of the rebel nobles extended families, ranging from eldest patriarch to youngest grandchild. The trials and executions would go on for months. Lochos lay in ruins and the Iron King ordered what was left to be demolished and for a new city to be rebuilt. With Olympia secured Perturabo began to recall as much of his Legion that he could, unwilling to pull any from garrison forces as they would be vital in maintaining loyalty to Terra on those worlds where the Imperium was often seen as the oppressor, as well as keeping supply lines open for the loyalists.

The primarch ordered all available Fourth Legion fleets via astropathic messaging to return to Olympia to add their contingents with the military might assembling there, creating a mobile and powerful armada to take the war to the Arch-Traitor. Not long after the message had been sent, a substantial fleet of Iron Warriors arrived to Olympia, the same fleet Perturabo departed from all those months ago when he left for Terra but now was battle damaged and fewer in number. Rather than being led by Harkor it was instead led by the warsmith's battalion second-in-command Captain Kroeger.

Kroeger informed the Iron King that shortly after his departure the fleet became trapped in a warp storm. Stranded in a remote star system named Sorkar for months, the fleet was assaulted by the Alpha Legion when the warp storm surrounding them began to weaken. For an entire day the two fleets fought until Harkor was killed, alongside a strike team, in an attempt to kill the Twentieth Primarch aboard his flagship the Alpha. It failed, and with it the Iron Warriors under Kroeger withdrew from the star system and made towards Olympia to regroup and rearm, their departing numbers just under half of what they once were.

Perturabo processed the information, unsurprised, and began to issue orders for the Legion. Though the Iron Warriors had suffered setbacks and heavy casualties early on in the Heresy, it would not daunt them nor make their determination waver. For months the Fourth Primarch remained on Olympia, gathering a significant percentage of his Legion. When Perturabo left Olympia he split his armada into dozens of large fleets that would attack the weakened flanks of the traitors, cutting off supply lines and deploying Iron Warriors on scores of worlds that lay in the path of the Arch-Traitor and his cohorts' offensives. Though many of these planetary deployments resulted in the total elimination of the Astartes sent, whether it was several squads, a couple of platoons, or even a full battalion, they nevertheless made the Traitor Legions pay the butcher's bill to claim victory. On Terra, Dorn and Horus estimated that Perturabo had slowed down the traitors so significantly that Terra would have an extra year, possibly even two, to become ready.

While his Legion bled the War Commander and his cohorts, Perturabo himself moved from theatre to theatre, leading his legionnaires to victory where first there was none, to evacuating military assets out of warzones where they would have died needlessly. Perturabo even evacuated several Forge Worlds of the Martian Mechanicum, allowing the tech-priests to take with them all valuable technology they could fill their cargo holds with. Following these evacuations, the worlds' industries would be crippled to make them all but useless to the War Commander for years. Though Mars did not like what the Iron Warriors did to those worlds, all agreed it was better to evacuate and cripple rather than leave them productive for the traitors to take advantage of and violate with their vile tech-heresies.

 _The silence on the_ Iron Blood _'s bridge was palpable. Machines beeped, whirred and purred, but the mortals, Astartes and tech-adepts were silent. All stared out the view-screen, watching in horror as the White Scars fleet they had been chasing disappeared in the warp storm before them. It was a massive storm; such was its turbulence that it was visible in real-space. Larger than any other discovered and catalogued, possibly as large as all put together._

 _"The Great Storm," the bridge crew whispered. Perturabo looked at it, feeling… not fear, but unease. It was the storm, the one that had haunted him his entire life. From it he could hear whispers. Indiscernible, but they produced images in his head, changing faster and faster._

 _'His body lay crumpled at the base of the Eternity Gate, his sons hauling his body as Sanguinius' mouth dripped his life's blood. His angelic brother looked disease, dying, wings shorn of white and black feathers, leaving bare muscle and bone…'_

 _Pain, it heralded the change._

 _'He oversaw his sons dragging corpses by the thousands to large funeral pyres, guilt filling him and shame. He pushed the thoughts aside. His father would not forgive him for such needless slaughter. He was no better than Curze._

 _A messenger from his brother stood behind him. Turning, he looked at the Son of Horus and he knew that if he agreed to Horus' proposal his name would forever be blackened in history, but his brother had forgiven him…'_

 _Pain._

 _'The Imperial Fists were descending to their doom, of that he had made sure. Surface to air cannons rose, missiles prepped, Astartes readied to avenge the failure of the Siege. The Fists were walking right into his trap, their cage of death and iron…'_

 _Pain._

 _'The world was bone-white, as was the sky, the black sun blazed overhead as his sons and the slaves continued to build his fortress, no matter how many millions died in the construction…'_

 _Pain almost overrode him but he quelled it, ignoring the whispers, crushing them beneath his will. The pain eventually eroded, and then left. Looking at the Great Storm he walked towards the bridge's primary navigation cogitator and spoke._

 _"We will not follow the Khan. Whatever he does there, he does in a miasma of madness and chaos. We are needed elsewhere." The tension in the bridge faded some, obvious relief flooding the crew while his legionnaires stood there, accepting the order without question._

 _The storm before him was not normal, as so far storms such as this were considered normal. Leaning downwards to press the rune-keys he thought of what to name it. Great Storm simply lacked the horridness and dread that emitted from it, such that others, lacking his strange link to it, felt. After a moment's consideration, he typed the new name for the storm, a name that all would know. It would cause fear, but acknowledging that fear was the first step in conquering it. He looked at the name for a moment before he hit the confirmation rune. Stepping from the console, he looked at the Eye of Terror, defiant and resilient against its temptations._

After years of slowing down the Traitor Legions, Perturabo reunited the bulk of his Legion and made way to the Throneworld. The traitors were on their way to Terra, the Heavy Worlds Campaign showcasing how close they were becoming, and the Iron King had done all he could to stall their advances. Arriving to Terra with over a hundred thousand Astartes, the Iron Warriors helped finish the Sol System's fortifications. The auspex outposts of Pluto, the shipyards of Jupiter, the forges of Mars and the imposing defence laser grid of Luna would be reinforced with Iron Warriors, while the majority joined their Imperial Fist cousins in the Imperial Palace. On Mars, loyalist forces had driven the Dark Mechanicum to the brink of defeat, with only a few Heretek forges resisting the combined Fourth and Seventh Legion ground forces. The traitor tech-priests were able to resist due to a powerful contingent of Iron Hands, and the forbidden technology and foul tech-corruption raided from the Vaults of Moravec.

Several months after the Lord of Iron's arrival, the largest war armada in Imperial history emerged from the warp. The vast majority of all Eight Traitor Legions, alongside the traitor-aligned Imperial Army and other auxiliary forces such as Typhon's Black Legion, emerged from the Immaterium into the Sol System and the battle for Mankind began. The IV fleet fought bravely beside the VII and XVI fleets, supported by Battlefleet Solar, but the loyalists were outnumbered and forced out of the way into the system's halo for repairs and to recover, though loyalist warships would continue to raid and disrupt traitor fleet movements for the entirety of the Siege.

When the traitors made landfall onto humanity's birthworld, the Iron Warriors defended the Imperial Palace shoulder-to-shoulder with the Imperial Fists and Sons of Horus. For every hallway lost, for each block of stone crumbled beneath a traitor's boot, a loyalist had defied the enemy, causing horrific casualties amongst the Traitor Legions. Annoyed by the rising death toll and slow progress, Fulgrim summoned more and more daemonic hordes to his aid as the rebel legionnaires sought any weakness in the Palace. But there were few, and those beyond minor.

The three Loyal Legions were bleeding the traitors dry, but they were taking heavy casualties as well and were slowly but steadily being pushed back. The fall of the Ultimate Gate on the fifty-seventh day of the Siege gave the traitors a surge of confidence and further constricted loyalist forces deeper and deeper into the Palace. The arrival of the Raven Guard came as a relief. While the Ravenlord and his elite bolstered the defenders in the Palace, the bulk of the XIX spread throughout Terra, disrupting traitor supply lines, communications hubs and muster points, though they would primarily combat the hedonistic White Scars who preyed upon the population.

Despite the reinforcement, the loyalists continued to be pushed back. When the Iron Hands' siege weapons created a hole in the Eternity Wall, Angron led the assault into the gap. Perturabo, Corax and Horus met the traitors head on and for hours held the breach, denying the traitors their victory. While the Deliverer fought the Gladiator, their former close friendship making the fight all the more sorrowful, the assault was broken when Horus defeated Ka'Bandha, breaking the Bloodthirster's spine across his armoured knee. After the traitors withdrew, the hole in the Eternity Wall was bulldozed shut and the Siege became a stalemate once more.

On the ninety-fifth day the void-shields protecting the Inner Palace collapsed, coinciding with a large-scale assault by the traitors. By the time the three primarchs had defeated the assault, realising it for the diversion it was, it was too late. The Praetorian and War Commander were dead, the Emperor mortally wounded and the Traitor Legions in full retreat.

Perturabo would see his father interred onto the Golden Throne and would go about readying the Imperium for its great counter-attack. In the Year of Intermission he lead the funeral procession for Dorn, laying his brother to rest in the newly constructed Tomb of the Primarchs, with a statue of the Vigilant standing tall and proud, created by the Iron King himself. During this time Perturabo became the second Emperor's Praetorian. Later, when the Scouring began, thousands of Fourth Legion Astartes would remain behind to defend the Palace and oversee its reconstruction.

When the Great Scouring began, Perturabo was at the forefront with his Iron Warriors, helping tear down rebel domains, reintegrating entire sectors back into the Imperium and destroying any and all traitors they found. During the Scouring, following the breaking of the Syndicate Chaotica, the IV made its way to Medusa to lay low the Iron Hands.

Medusa, heart of the Ferrum Dominion, would resist until the end of the Scouring. The Lord of Iron would fight the Gorgon at the base of the mountain the Tenth Primarch had crashed into as a young demigod. Perturabo would succeed that day, but would lose an arm to his Medusan brother. This would be the First Iron War between the two gene-lines, the first but not the last.

 **The Iron Cages-**

Fifteen years after the Dropsite Massacre at Bellanor the Imperium finally was at a sort of hesitant stability. The majority of the Traitor Legions had withdrawn to the Eye, all but the Night Lords and Alpha Legion. The VIII continued to plague several sectors but they were on the fringes of Imperial territory, warring over unimportant worlds and backwaters. The XX had been broken by Guilliman at Eskrador, their primogenitor dead, and forces scattered throughout the galaxy, leaving them a minor threat, for a time.

As the Imperium stabilised it also reformed. The Legiones Astartes evolved into the Adeptus Astartes, the new Space Marine Chapters spread throughout the Imperium to better defend and maintain it. Perturabo, who once led the third largest Legion in the Imperium, now led only five thousand. It was bitter to stomach, but he had argued for the adoption of the Codex Astartes nonetheless. Guilliman had made strong valid points, and the Legions were of the Great Crusade while the Chapters would be of the Age of Imperium. The Legions had been too large, too powerful, and it almost led to disaster.

As the Imperium adjusted itself to an era without the Emperor to directly lead them, the High Lords of Terra were formed. Perturabo, as one of them, convinced his brothers and the other High Lords that though the Traitor Legions appeared defeated and the xenos races cowed or broken, it did not mean that they would always be so. To protect the Imperium the Lord of Iron strongly urged the formation of fortress-worlds alongside the borders of warp storms and other potential hot zones, all of which would be approved. These would be known as the Iron Cages and would take decades, even centuries for some, to finish but most would be completed within Perturabo's lifetime. Though all gene-lines contributed to the construction, a clear majority were done by sons of Dorn and Perturabo, and almost half of all Iron Cage Fortress Worlds in the 41st Millennium are manned by these two bloodlines.

Perturabo's insistence in creating the Iron Cages bore fruit seven hundred years after the Fulgrimian Heresy when War Commander Sakaeron's First Vengeance Crusade erupted from the Eye of Terror, spilling into the Imperium. The Iron Warriors with the assistance of half a dozen Chapters fought the initial invasion, slowing it down as they did in the Heresy until reinforcements led by Warmaster Horus could arrive. It would take several years but the Vengeance Crusade would be defeated and the traitors thrown back.

While the Imperium rejoiced in defeating the Vengeance Crusade, the Iron King became committed to reinforcing and expanding upon the Iron Cages so as to not allow destruction on such a scale to happen again. Shortly after the Second War Commander withdrew to the Eye, panicked astropathic messages reached him that made the primarch make way towards his homeworld immediately: A large Iron Hands force led personally by Ferrus Manus had invaded Olympia.

Returning to his homeworld for the first time in decades Perturabo saw the substantial Tenth Legion invasion fleet over it with an ever-expanding warp storm slowly engulfing the planet. Perturabo would break through the Chaos fleet to land in New Lochos with most of the Iron Warriors Chapter. There, Perturabo denied the Daemon Primarch his conquest for months, the Gorgon's Iron Hands unable to quickly overwhelm the outnumbered loyalists, and stopping the warp storm from expanding. Despite such resistance, the traitors were slowly whittling down the loyal Astartes numbers and encroaching into the city itself.

Perturabo, knowing that to remain on the defensive was to invite a slow defeat, opted for a bold strike against the heart of the traitor army against him: Manus himself. Attacking with every Space Marine left to him, the Lord of Iron surged through the Chaos ranks until he came face to face with his daemon-brother.

The final engagement between the two primarchs would fill entire tomes, create songs that would make grown men weep, and cast Perturabo as defiant and resolute till the end. Brother fought brother with ferocity rarely seen in the blood-drenched cosmos, each searching for a weakness in the other. After some time, Perturabo realised that he was becoming weary, that even his monolithic stamina and endurance could only go so far. If he fought without resolution for much longer he would tire enough for Manus to exploit that weakness and see him dead and Olympia lost to the Ruinous Powers forever. Putting duty before himself, Perturabo closed the distance between him and Manus, sacrificing himself with a crippling blow from Forgebreaker but able to thrust the Praetorian Sword into Manus' primary heart. Though Manus could never truly die as his soul belonged to the Chaos Gods, he was banished to the Sea of Souls for a thousand years due to Perturabo's sacrifice.

With Manus' banishment, the warp storm dissipated, taking with it the entirety of the daemonic horde, leaving the Iron Hands exposed to a vengeful Chapter. In the void, five Fourth Legion Successor Chapters had arrived in full force and quickly trapped and killed thousands of Iron Hands, though many escaped. It was a victory for the Iron Warriors, for the Imperium as a whole, but it came at too high a cost.

 _First Captain Barban Falk rushed to his primarch's side. The Iron King lay amidst a hundred dead Iron Hands and five hundred daemons, his honour guard had all perished with him. With the Daemon-Primarch banished back to the warp, the storm was quickly dissipating and with it the daemons' foothold in reality. Already their corpses were breaking down and disappearing while the living ones fell in pain on the ground and seemed to fade into nothingness, their screams echoing into finality._

 _Over the vox he could hear from the shipmasters of Iron Warrior warships that the Steel Brethren, Black Wardens, Iron Hearts, Doom Warriors and Silver Skulls had arrived, and had begun to engage the enemy. Important yes, but it paled in comparison to Perturabo who lay in a pool of his own blood intermingled with that of the enemy._

 _Kneeling beside his gene-sire, Falk voxed for Apothecaries, knowing it was too late. His father looked at him, eyes such a deep blue as to appear black. They flicked to him, for only a moment, then back to the dust and smoke filled sky. They seemed to be concentrated on a single point._

 _"I can see it even now, mocking me, calling to me." Perturabo coughed, blood dripping down his cheek and jaw. Falk knew of what his father spoke, something only the First Captain, High Chaplain, Chief Librarian and the other triarchs knew. His father continued._

 _"The Eye, it stares down at me. It has since I first stepped out of my pod so many years ago." Another cough, more blood streaming from the mouth, the mangled mess of armour and flesh that was Perturabo's side accounting for much of the spreading pool of blood. "It has stared and called for centuries and I have defied it. I named it, contained it, and conquered it in my mind. I have no fear of it, none."_

 _A smile touched the primarch's lips, blood-stained teeth shown in a victorious smirk. He looked at Falk again, staying this time. "Do not fear it, my son. Do not let it impede on you nor make you its slave. It is an enemy, and as with all enemies you must resist and eliminate it. The Imperium is the shield of Mankind and we are the bearers of that shield. Defend it. Defend it until the stars burn out. Defend it with your last breath and effort of will. Defend it, build and rebuild it, and never shirk from duty. Do you understand?"_

 _"Yes, my lord." It was all that could be said._

 _"Good." Perturabo's eyes began to lose focus for a moment until they focused on his first captain once again._

 _"From Iron, cometh Strength. From Strength, cometh Will. From Will, cometh Faith. From Faith, cometh Honour. From Honour, cometh Iron. This is the Unbreakable Litany, and may it ever be so."_

 _His eyes had lost focus again and breathing became ragged, rasping._

 _"Iron Within, Iron Without."_

 _Falk stared into his father's dead eyes until the Apothecaries came to take him away._

 _Standing, he clenched his hands. He would follow Perturabo's commands. He, his brothers of the Iron Warriors and the other Successors would hold to their gene-sire's final words. The Imperium would stand, it would endure, and would conquer the galaxy entire if need be._

 _Walking back towards New Lochos, following the body being carried by Chapter officers and hearing the exclamations of shock, horror and despair over the vox, he looked into the sky where the Eye of Terror hovered unseen, like a vast tumour amongst the stars._

 _"Iron Within, Iron Without."_

The Second Iron War ended with the death of Perturabo and the banishment of Ferrus Manus. The Lord of Iron, as per his wishes, would be buried in the Tomb of Primarchs across from his brother Dorn. For the first time in eight and a half centuries, the Iron Warriors were left without their primarch. To replace Perturabo as leader of the Iron Warriors was First Captain Barban Falk. Falk would lead the Iron Warriors for a hundred years until his own death at the hands of Dark Eldar raiders in the Kadakar Nebula. When Falk fell, his successor became Chapter Master and the chain of command has been maintained diligently ever since.

In the millennia since the fall of the Iron King, the Iron Warriors and their Successors have fought in every Vengeance Crusade and countless rebellions such as the Dessian Secession and the Badab War. Not only have they fought traitors, rebels, and heretics, but also alien invasions ranging from the War of the Beast to the arrival of the Tyranid Hive Fleets, containing these dire threats until they could be dealt with properly. The Chapter and their Successors scour the Imperium for heretics, xenos and worse, their actions and heroics having allowed the Imperium to endure for ten thousand years.

As the 41st Millennium comes to a close the Iron Warriors and their brethren find themselves stretched thin. Hive Fleet Leviathan, Ork Waaaghs, numerous rebellions, the Tau Empire and more have caused the First Founding Chapter to become spread throughout the Imperium. With the Eye of Terror soon to reopen with the emergence of the Eleventh Vengeance Crusade the sons of Perturabo ready themselves to defend the Imperium, and die if need be in the process.

 **Organisation-**

During the early decades of the Great Crusade the Fourth Legion was formed around the great company. These large formations varied greatly between each other, but even the smallest was several thousand strong. The Legion undertook an organisational evolution when Perturabo volunteered his Legion to garrison worlds as the great company structure proved insufficient for this task. The new IV would revolve around the battalion. Every battalion numbered five hundred Astartes, and had five one hundred-strong platoons each, and within each platoon were ten squads made up of ten legionnaires. This allowed the Iron Warriors to be split into smaller and smaller units during their garrisoning of Imperial worlds. So drastic were some of these Astartes contingents that one deployment numbered a single squad of legionnaires to help govern a world of billions. This breaking down and spread of the Fourth Legion allowed hundreds of worlds to be properly integrated into the Imperium, many of which remained loyal to the Throne during the Heresy.

Since the adoption of the Codex Astartes, the Iron Warriors and their descendants have adopted the standard ten companies, five hundred Astartes each, with five platoons per company, and ten squads per platoon. Though some Chapters with Perturabo's blood running through their veins have adopted unique organisation templates, a majority are Codex-compliant. The Iron Warriors have continued, and many of their Successors have adopted, the use of the Trident that gives advice to the Chapter Master. Always the First Captain of the Chapter is a triarch by default but the other two could be a lowly sergeant or high-ranking captain. Librarians and Chaplains are excluded from being eligible for triarchs as their duties are seen as too important to be bothered with the roles and traditions a member of the Trident is expected to carry out.

Among the Fourth Legion, Chaplains were valued as the spiritual backbone of the Legion. When some legionnaires doubted or grumbled about their years of garrisoning duties, an Iron Warrior Chaplain was always near to correct their doubts and left with the legionnaire convinced that their service was vital to the Imperium at large, thankless that it commonly was. This has continued since the Legion became a Chapter.

Unlike Chaplains, Librarians were initially regarded with scorn, though seen as valuable weapons when foes fielded psykers. This scorn would lessen with the Edict of Nikaea, and would disappear altogether during the Heresy when the Legion's Librarians were vital to securing many victories against the daemon-backed traitors. This attitude has been inherited by the Successor Chapters. To any scion of the Iron King it does not matter if you are a lowly battle-brother, a skilled Techmarine or Apothecary, all fight for the Emperor and Perturabo, wherever war takes them.

Uniquely among the Chapters, the Iron Warriors and their descendants share a responsibility with the Imperial Fists and their Successors: the continued defence of the Sol System. When Dorn fell, Perturabo became the Emperor's Second Praetorian but when the Lord of Iron died on Olympia the question of who would inherit such responsibility was asked by many. Acting quickly with the Imperium's interests and security in mind, the Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors volunteered that a Chapter of their gene-lines would protect Terra henceforth, alternating between the two in century long periods of service. Thus was born the Praetorian Council, where representatives of all Chapters bearing the gene-seed of the Fourth or Seventh Primarch chose amongst themselves who would police the Sol System and act as the first line of defence if the Throneworld ever came under assault again. This changing of the guard would continue unbroken until the Reign of Blood. Vandire's mad regime would use the High Lords' veto of the Praetorian Council's choice for the first and only time in history, barring any Astartes from setting foot on Terra, cementing the tyrant's power. But as Perturabo had shown them so long ago, tyrants would never be tolerated.

Led by the Chapter Masters of the Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors the Reign of Blood was ended in the Terran Crusade. Once Vandire was deposed, a new council of High Lords was selected. With this new Imperial Senate in power, led by Ecclesiarch Sebastian Thor, the Praetorian System resumed where it left off, continuing to the modern day. The current Space Marine protectors of Terra are the Black Wardens Chapter, selected by Praetorian Council due to their valiant action of the Defence of Pyris during the Badab War, halting the rebel advance while greatly outnumbered.

 **Recruitment-**

While a vast a majority of the Iron Warriors Chapter is Olympian-born, not all are. Less than five percent are recruited elsewhere across the width and breadth of the Imperium, and this minority must consistently prove themselves to their Olympian brethren. Though facing multiple challenges, these battle-brothers number many of the Chapter's greatest heroes of ages past. The current Chapter Master is a non-Olympian, the legendary Honsou, the Astartes who's first campaign as Chapter Master prevented a combined Alpha Legion-Word Bearer assault fleet from invading Calth due to the Battle of Talassar. The battle was fought in conjunction with the Ultramarines Fourth Company led by Captain Uriel Ventris. This assistance prevented the Traitor Marines led by M'kar Reborn, also known as M'kar Twice-born, from ransacking Calth and destroying the tomb of an Ultramarine hero during the Great Heresy: Captain Remus Ventanus. As a result of their successful joint-operation, Ultramarine Chapter Master Cato Sicarius renewed the bonds of friendship and camaraderie between the two Chapters.

 **Homeworld-**

The homeworld of the Iron Warriors has been Olympia for over ten thousand years, ever since Perturabo was found by the Emperor. When his father took him to Terra, Perturabo left a world with an upper class simmering with discontent. This would later form the heart of the Second Coup. When the Iron King defeated the coup, he ordered the execution of all who had betrayed him and the Imperium. Though bloody, it was nonetheless effective as the Olympians of modern times, whether they be noble or commoner, are unswaying in their loyalty to Perturabo's memory and the Emperor's legacy. Though Olympia is their official homeworld, Terra is often seen as a spiritual homeworld. This, and the location of Dorn's body, was Perturabo's reason for being entombed on the Throneworld.

The fortress-monastery of the Chapter resides in the heart of New Lochos, a well-ordered and peaceful city, a similar state seen in every city on Olympia. Architects from across the Imperium visit Olympia every year to observe the legendary blueprints of Olympian cities, created by Perturabo in the aftermath of the Scouring.

Since the destructive Second Iron War that took place on the planet itself, Olympia has rebuilt its towering cities, fortifying them with the same energy and skill seen on hundreds of worlds across the galaxy. Throughout history many a Chaos Lord thought Olympia a ripe target when the bulk of the Iron Warriors were deployed elsewhere and have launched several attempted invasions of the planet, but none have been able to break through the formidable void system defence grid and the vaunted Defence Fleet of Olympia that hovers protectively over the mountainous world. Since the banishment of Manus, none save the feet of those loyal to the Golden Throne have tread across Olympia.

 **Combat Doctrine-**

The Iron Warriors' strengths have always lied in besieging and defence. This does not mean that they lack in open warfare, far from it. If the Iron Warriors fight in massed warfare, they do so with near-endless artillery and the support of allies, ranging from the Imperial Guard to the Adeptus Mechanicus to other Chapters. Few meet the Iron Warriors on the field of battle and not shake from fear when they see the multitude of Astartes, soldiers, cannons, armoured vehicles and tanks arrayed against them.

 **Beliefs-**

Even before Perturabo was found, the philosophies of the Iron Warriors were that victory must be attained no matter the cost, and that the Imperium was greater than the individual. These would only increase when the Fourth Primarch took command of his Legion.

The Iron Warriors tenacity and meticulousness would see uncountable battles won. Though the Iron Warriors do attempt to minimise Imperial casualties, they are not hesitant to sacrifice entire regiments of the Imperial Guard as cannon fodder if it gained them an advantage. Despite this mind-set and occasional sacrifice of mortal men and women, the sons of Perturabo have good relations with many Guard regiments due to their thorough integration with local Imperial armed forces in military campaigns. While the Iron Warriors might sacrifice a dozen regiments in a day to secure victory, that victory would save dozens more.

Those that bear the gene-seed of the Iron King view the Imperium as a protective fortress for Mankind's survival. While humans make up individual pieces of said fortress, the foundation is more important than the separate parts. When the protection loses pieces and begins to crumble, the Iron Warriors are always there to rebuild atop the old.

This school of thought has come into direct conflict with several Space Marine Chapters, notably the Salamanders. During the Great Crusade both Legions kept away from each other as much as possible, refusing to fight alongside the other. The Iron Warriors saw the Salamanders as hopeless optimists that cared more for humanitarian needs than the realistic needs of the Emperor's Realm. Likewise, the Salamanders view the Iron Warriors as cutthroat pragmatists. Relations between the two Chapters have not improved in recent centuries, despite the successful co-defence of Cyllia Majoris in 945.M41 against Hive Fleet Locust, allowing the Ultramarines to exterminate the Hive Fleet entirely later that year in the Battle of Ulmor.

Perturabo's relations with his other brothers were mixed, some friendly, some neutral and others outright hostile. Perturabo easily befriended Magnus, Horus and Guilliman. Perturabo had a well-known mutual respect with Sanguinius, Angron and the Lion, though it lacked close brotherhood.

The Fourth Primarch had extremely poor relations with three of his brothers during the Great Crusade: Russ, Fulgrim and Manus. With Russ, the two primarchs disliked the other's attitudes and way of war. The Compliance of Ferthea during the Great Crusade saw the two primarch's methodologies of war clash with one another, causing the conflict to last longer than it should have with higher casualties. The result was decades of arguments, clashes of personality and avoidance in military campaigns. Their relations would only improve two centuries after the Heresy when both primarchs fought back to back on Aginthon VII, defeating a daemon horde summoned by Magnus. The Wolf King and the Iron King fought the Cyclops and his Thousand Sons and banished the Daemon Primarch back to the Planet of the Sorcerers. Since that combined effort both the Space Wolves and Iron Warriors, as well as their Successors, have been on favourable terms since and often is the call for one to aid the other in war, using their methodologies in conjunction rather than in competition.

The dislike with Fulgrim and Manus were proven valid when the two betrayed the Emperor. Though Perturabo hated Fulgrim as he was the Arch-Traitor and destroyed the dream of Unity, Perturabo loathed his Medusan brother. The two shared many similarities, both had an affinity with technology, both led Legions accomplished in massed warfare, and both had close ties to the Mechanicum. In spite of these similarities, which would have normally been grounds for acceptance if not friendliness, the two brothers despised one another, and either coldly ignored or quietly insulted the other. No one currently knows why this animosity between the two began, not even the Iron Warriors themselves, or if they do they are keeping such secrets to themselves.

Relations between the Iron Warriors and the Adeptus Mechanicus are one for much study and discussion. The friendship between the two was well-known in the days prior to the Great Heresy and only strengthened afterwards. When Kelbor-Hal died, his successor Kane became the next Fabricator General and ties between the Imperium and the Mechanicum grew stronger. This would have the unforeseen effect of a third of the Mechanicum becoming the Dark Mechanicum, led by Tech-Adept Lukas Chrom.

Since the Heresy, where Iron Warrior legionnaires fought and died on dozens of Forge Worlds, defending from traitor assaults, and invading rebel Forge Worlds, the friendship has remained close. As the relationship between the two strengthens so does the Imperium, because it ties the Mechanicus ever tighter into the Imperial fold, but also because of the exchange of knowledge and technology, a vital boon to Mankind. The exchange of information between the two has led to significant advancements and refinements in Imperial technology, ranging from upgraded power armour to deadlier and more effective arsenal of weapons for the Imperium's vast armies. Examples include the Akra-class star forts that help protect the vast reaches of the void, to the Godwyn Mark Vd Pattern bolter, replacing the older and obsolete Godwyn Mark Vb Pattern as the most widely produced and distributed Space Marine bolter.

 **Gene-seed-**

The gene-seed of the Iron Warriors has remained more or less as it was at the dawn of the Great Crusade. While most of the Iron Warriors gene-seed has remained pure, the Catalepsean Node is hyper-active, allowing the Astartes to remain awake without sleep for much longer if need be. Apothecaries of Fourth Legion descent vigilantly monitor their gene-seed, destroying any that are deemed unstable, stopping this impure gene-seed from being implanted into the Chapter's Neophytes.

The Iron Warriors gene-seed is very compatible with most human gene-pools, allowing for rejection rates to be quite low. Though their rejection rates are only slightly higher than the Ultramarines and Sons of Horus, they are on par with the Imperial Fists, Dark Angels and Blood Angels, and easily surpass the Space Wolves, Salamanders, Raven Guard, and Death Guard.

 **Battlecry-**

The Iron Warriors use a mixture of "For the Emperor," and "For Perturabo," and variations thereof but their primary battle-cry remains "Iron Within, Iron Without."


	6. A Knight of the Eye

**A Knight of the Eye**

 _"I knelt as a Dark Angel and rose as a Son of Fulgrim."_

-Merir Astelan upon formally entering the Third Legion's ranks

The world was flesh, the canyons were creases in the skin, a mountain range of bone was the brow, rivers of molten lava the veins, the deep bottomless caverns the pores. From these came the daemons in all their horror, in all their mindless frenzy. They came, beings of pale coloured flesh, their eyes pools of blood, and their arms ending in jagged swords of bone. They hummed as they charged forward, a song of madness, a symphony of chaos.

"Fire," ordered Merir Astelan. Seventeen bolters unleashed their fury at the encroaching warp-spawn. Many fell to the ground, their death-screams even musical, a high-pitched whistle of joy and agony.

Bolter fire killed some of those that neared them, but not all. The larger, more powerful ones shrugged off the bolts and laughed manically as they neared. Only two things would kill daemons of such calibre. Mag-locking his bolter, Astelan drew his sword.

"Swords and flamers, kill, brothers, kill!"

Guns were replaced with blade and fire. The seventeen Astartes, formerly Astartes of the First Legion, readied to meet the wall of hell.

The daemons continued their run, increasing their speed, their howls louder, and their screeches more eerie and bone shaking. Astelan picked up the shield he had impaled into the ground, the bottom covered in serrated spikes, his brothers' shields mirroring that of his own.

The horde of flesh met with the wall of ceramite. Scores of daemons were cut down in the initial seconds, tainted blood spraying across armour and pooling into the ground where small mouths opened in the flesh, drinking their fill, humming a low hiss of bliss.

Astelan dodged a bone-sword, thrusting with his own power sword, dissecting the lithe monstrous body. Vivid pink viscera spattered at his feet. Casting aside the corpse, he turned to pierce another, his sword humming, parting the warp-flesh as it made its way through to another, decapitating it. As the killing continued, he thought back on how it came to this. He was, had been, a veteran of a hundred battlefields. One of the first Space Marines of the Legiones Astartes, hero of the Imperium, defender of his adopted world of Caliban, protector of freedom… now… now he was an outcast in hell, fighting its denizens.

Snarling, he stepped toward a daemon, surprising it, its hideously beautiful features twisting in outrage. It died with a sword though its open mouth. Flicking the gore away, he continued the melee. He and his sixteen legionnaires had fought for the Emperor, then the Lion and finally for Luther. The Emperor failed them with His lies; the Lion failed them with his antipathy; the Saviour of Caliban had failed them with his incompetence. Now they were lost, no longer sworn to any but each other.

When Luther had raised the flag of independence on Caliban, Astelan joined without hesitation. He had been the strong arm of the Saviour, the gauntleted fist, the sword of justice and freedom. Fifty years of support and friendship, all for nothing. Caliban now no longer existed, a collection of broken rocks and cosmic dust. The only viable piece of that world now was the fortress-monastery of the Dark Angels Chapter, the former fortress of Aldurukh, renamed the Rock by those ignorant Angels. He had fought, he had sacrificed, he had rebelled, and it had all been for naught. Luther and his followers sat on their world of white sand and crimson skies, doing little but planning and rebuilding. For what cause, Astelan did not know, nor did he care anymore. He had lost true purpose decades ago. He had lost it when he had been pulled into the warp by Luther, feeling the death-scream of tens of millions of Calibanites as the planet tore itself apart in the flames of warp-fire and war.

Since then he had sought out fellow Independents, enlisting them to fight for none but themselves. Many he had found still retained loyalty to Luther, up until his blade killed them, but some had joined him, seeking a death in combat, clinging to some semblance of worth. They wandered the Eye of Terror, fighting for one warband or another, occasionally only themselves against all others. When the Legion Wars erupted, they had found more work in the Eye. Astelan and his Vengeful Knights Warband had been accumulating quite a name for themselves.

Power, glory, fear, all that effort to gain those and now going to be wasted all due to a warp-predator cutting their ship in two, sending it crashing onto this world of flesh and bone. Out of thirty-eight legionnaires, only they seventeen survived the crash, and that number was beginning to shrink.

Dhalos was the first to die, a bone-sword finding an opening in the underarm of the Astartes. The blade pierced both hearts and a lung, killing the battle-brother instantly. He was the first to die, but not the last.

Pyles, Adalber, Rycard all died within minutes of each other. Seventeen quickly became thirteen.

Malster fell beneath the cuts and scraps of a hundred swords, his body leaking his life-blood as the daemons fell upon him. "Back!" he yelled through the vox, raising a hand holding a bandolier of krak grenades. Twelve Astartes moved as one away from their fallen brother. A loud crack in the air followed by falling debris of metal and body parts signalling that their brother was no more, his sacrifice having killed scores of daemons, but it was a mere bucket to a vast ocean.

Twelve became eleven, eleven ten, ten nine. Freidrike's flamer sputtered the last of its promethium reserves. As the Space Marine cast aside the flamer, pulling his chainsword from its scabbard, a large pink-white daemon impaled him. Blood spurted outwards like a fountain and the warp creatures near it fell to their knees, bathing in the legionnaire's blood, hymns of ecstasy filling the air.

Overhead Astelan could see the gargantuan warp-predator as it soared through the upper atmosphere, its long tendrils leaving swirling paths in the cloud covered sky. It roared, a beast of the abyss rushing for the kill.

Nine became eight and eight seven. Astelan killed and killed and killed, but more came out of the planet's pores, while he and his brothers fell one by one.

Seven became six and six became five when a large boom came from above. Stealing a glance upwards, Astelan saw the warp-beast became awash with flame. Coming from behind it were three warships. Astartes warships. Two were strike cruisers, the other a battle-barge, all three bristling with weapons and carrying about themselves a deadly grace.

The beast above shrieked its death-scream as torpedoes, missiles, cannons, lances, lasers and plasma were unleashed against it. The monolithic daemon was dying, or as close to dying as they came. It would be banished to the true Empyrean for centuries at least.

The Dark Angels vox hissed and popped, the Eye distorting communications.

 _"Cousins,"_ came a voice, collected, considerate yet unyielding. It was a voice that expected others to follow it, and one that achieved those results. _"Move toward these coordinates."_ The data was uploaded to their visor-feeds.

"Why should we trust you?" demanded Astelan.

 _"Because if you do not, you will all die."_

The former Legion Master contemplated the words. To put his trust, his life and the lives of his men in another's hand felt strange. He had not felt it for centuries. He thought of denying this assistance, but looking at the unending hordes still surfacing from the dark depths he knew he could not. The death of another of his Knights only reinforced his decision.

"Acknowledged. Moving towards marked location."

 _"That is wise."_

The four survivors surged through the tainted ranks, moving towards where the land rose slightly, giving those that stood there an excellent view of the surrounding area. Four lowered to three as they ascended the raised fleshy earth. The warships in orbit took position, but it would take too long to land troops before the Dark Angels were overrun.

"Cousin? Cousin!" yelled Astelan, his back pressed to the other two Angels.

 _"We come."_

Explosions ringed around the Angels, missiles sent deep into the clusters of daemons, killing many, wounding others, and plugging the cavern-pores. The daemons were stunned; the death of so many of their brethren so quickly left their minds numb with psychic discharge. The aim was exact, the execution flawless; it was perfection, Astelan thought, impressed. From above came the booming clap of drop-pods breaking through the atmosphere at dangerous velocities. Two dozen pods fell, each filled with five legionnaires.

Clad in the purple-and-gold of the Sons of Fulgrim, the legionnaires spread out, eliminating the daemons as they stood there frozen with psychic shock. Eventually the warp-spawn recovered, launching themselves at the Space Marines but it was too late for them.

The fighting continued for several more minutes. The Sons lost eleven legionnaires, but that mattered little as he looked upon his final two Knights as they lay dead in heaps of killed daemons, their bodies' riddles with blade wounds.

His entire warband, his entire command, wiped out in a single day. He fell to his knees besides the fallen; his hands clenched atop the pommel his sword. He shook, not for sadness but anger. He had failed them. They did not die in glory or reap battle-honours; instead they died on a piss-poor excuse of a planet.

He heard an armoured figure approach from behind. The steps were measured, cool, confident, bordering on a hint of arrogance, but that was expected of the dead War Commander's progeny.

Turning, he saw an officer of the III, the markings and rank announcing to all that the one that bore them was a lord commander.

 _One of Fulgrim's thirty precious lord commanders, interesting,_ he thought. The Heresy had seen many of them die, with a majority of the others having disappeared or become major leaders of warbands. Names such as Lucius, Eidolon, and others like First Captain Kaesoron were known across the Eye, some admired, others hated. Astelan had fought several Third Legion warbands since coming to the Eye. None impressed him more than these that had saved him.

"What do you want?" he asked the Chemosian.

The officer stopped, cocked his head to one side. "Why do you think I want anything?"

"No one saves another without a reason, without a purpose." Astelan could not keep the bitterness from his tone.

The Third Legion commander was silent for a moment but slow chuckling laughter emanated from him.

Astelan eyes burned with rage. He had lost all his men to be indebted to someone who would laugh at him!

"Calm, Astelan, calm." "The Astartes raised his hands in a calming manner.

"My name. You know my name." It was not a question, but statement of evident fact.

"I do. I have been searching for you for some time."

"Why?" Astelan was curious.

"Because I have seen a future where you and I have stood side by side as we dismantled the Imperium and remade it anew. I will be the Champion of Chaos Undivided, and you my sword, the Vengeful Knight of destroyed Caliban. Together we will make the galaxy burn."

Astelan's rage simmered as the words rolled over him, his mind racing as he dissected the other's words.

"Who are you?"

The lord commander took off his helmet, revealing short cut platinum hair and violet eyes.

"I am Tyberius Sakaeron, once Lord Commander of the Second Millennial."

"Once? What are you now?"

A predatory smile carved itself on those patrician features, a smile of a reaper, a conqueror, a warlord.

"I am so much more than what I was two centuries ago when my father was alive. In time, my name will make the Imperium shudder and weep. I am Fulgrim's Heir, the future Second War Commander."

"You are very confident, cocky even. Taking those titles alone borders on presumptousness."

"A trait commonly associated with my gene-line, yes, I know. But this is not overconfidence, this is assuredness." Sakaeron gazed around them, his Astartes having secured the area, dropships coming from the warships above to pick up their masters. Looking back at the former Dark Angel, he continued.

"Join me, Astelan. Your men are dead, there is nothing for you here; you are aimless, lost in this hell we call home. Come with me; help me unite the Legions, starting with my own. Once the others accept me as War Commander and fight beneath my banner there will be no stopping us. We will be the harbingers of the Imperium's downfall. We will right the wrongs that were made, forge an empire of strength and unity through force of arms. The time of the Emperor and primarchs has passed; the time of the Space Marine has begun."

Astelan pulled his sword from the ground, noticing with some humour Sakaeron's guards inching closer towards him, wary for their lord's life, but he raised his hand to stall them. Astelan eased the power sword into its scabbard.

"Will I kill many Imperials?"

"Yes, of course."

"Very well, Sakaeron, lead on."

* * *

The War Commander left the planet of flesh and bone with the sole survivor of the Vengeful Knights Warband, who adopted the title of Vengeful Knight for himself, in memory of his destroyed warband and for the role he would play in the ages to come. In the Imperium, specially trained Imperial psykers probing the Eye of Terror witnessed that the warp pulsed with what could best be described as… contentment.


	7. Night of Silent Knives

**Night of Silent Knives**

"…further reports from our operatives detail Lord Sanguinius has left Talas Station for the Baal System, reportedly to replenish his Legion and replace some of his losses."

"How many Blood Angels are stationed there?" asked the Grand Master of Assassins, sitting coolly, fingers steeped together. The man was the epitome of calm, as if the Dropsite Massacre had never occurred.

Sire Vanus, face covered by a unique mask as were all who sat in the room, including the Grand Master himself, commanded the most in-depth intelligence network in the Imperium and his operatives were very effective at digging out even the smallest morsel of information. The eyes behind the glassy, shimmering mask flicked to their master.

"Seven to eight thousand, Grand Master, maybe more, likely less," Vanus said.

The Grand Master nodded behind his plain silver mask, motioning for Vanus to continue.

"Lord Vulkan is being brought to Terra, his body remaining in stasis until he gets to the Throneworld. It is hoped that the Emperor can see to his wounds."

Five heads nodded in understanding. Sire Eversor, his mask a frozen rictus of a fang-toothed skull of bone and gunmetal, added his own nod, making it six with only a second's delay.

"What of the situation on Mars?" queried the Grand Master.

"Chrom's offensive has been stopped and the scrap-code infection has been contained. Fabricator General Kane reports they might be able to purge the noosphere and vox of the scrap-code in some months' time. Chrom, styling himself as 'Voice of the True Omnissiah,' has a third of the Adepts behind him in addition to the few thousand Iron Hands that were on Mars when the Schism started."

"Losses?"

"Outside of the rebel Adepts' Forges and the contested areas, most of the Red Planet has been spared, though rebel cells within loyalist territory continue to plague supply lines and disrupt production through terrorist bombings and sabotage. Captain Camba-Diaz and Warsmith Golg's forces are eliminating isolated traitor Forges, removing any threat they might pose once the Astartes focus on liberating Olympus Mons and pushing towards Mondus Gamma."

Eversor looked around at his fellow Director Primus, listening as Vanus continued the debriefing. News of Fulgrim's treachery was spreading. Already the Adeptus Arbites were being deployed en masse across the Throneworld to quell riots and pro-Phoenician demonstrations. The first ended in arrests, the second executions. The same thing was happening on hundreds of worlds, possibly thousands.

The Grand Master looked at the six Directors. "We must be cautious in the next few months, cautious but vigilant. Fulgrim, this self-proclaimed War Commander, is quickly capitalising on his temporary advantage. Already he has captured dozens of star systems alongside the hundreds that have sworn for him, and both numbers are growing rapidly as word of the Massacre spreads and with it conquering rebel fleets."

"It disgusts me so many have joined," said Sire Vindicare behind a mask of standard issue, undistinguishable to the ones given to every assassin of his Clade. "Oaths apparently mean little to the common man." The comment was dry, the tone appalled.

"They are but weak chaff clinging to the strong," Culexus muttered, his voice was soft but held a core of steel, the mask he wore was of a distended, hydrocephalic skull.

"Countless billions will join out of falsely placed loyalty and oaths to Fulgrim that they interpret as greater than those to the Emperor," hissed Siress Callidus, skin-tight black mask with red rubies for eyes narrowing in annoyance.

"Many have joined the traitors either due to fear or loyalty to the Traitor Legions," Siress Venenum spoke quietly. "No matter how many join, we must contain the threat, eliminate dangerous targets and weaken the rebel movement."

"Agreed," broke in Eversor. He had little time for discussion, he desired action. "Let us create the first list."

So they did, for five hours, with only servitors coming in and out the isolated room known simply as the Shrouds, centred in a rarely visited locale of the Inner Palace, an effective ghost on Imperial Palace schematics. A list was compiled of who was to be eliminated to disrupt the traitors and cause disorder to rage across their worlds.

Elidias Xo, Governor of Poria, traitor-supporter, method of assassination: Venenum.

Wynna Sual, Chairwoman of the Congrannier Trading Union, traitor-sympathiser, method of assassination: Vanus.

Avaloas Tinbre, Lord General of the Resen Imperial Army Group, active traitor, method of assassination: Vindicare.

Dahn Daneel, Adept of the Corus Forge of Ha'Mar, active traitor, method of assassination: Eversor.

And the list continued. Dozens of names were added, and then scores, with nearly a hundred by the end. All were low to mid-ranking in the grand scheme of things but it was a start, the first pebbles of an avalanche, the initial pinpricks to draw blood before the killing strike. Assassinating the War Commander was brought up, but quickly decided it would have to wait. His bodyguard was too strong at the moment, his person protected at all times by the Phoenix Guard and his exact whereabouts were currently unknown. They talked of his assassination but only when and if the opportunity presented itself. In the meantime, other targets awaited.

Assassinations for the other Traitor Primarchs, as well as former First Captain Calas Typhon of the Death Guard, were discussed, planned, but put aside for the immediate. They would take time and effort, but the plans would be made, just in case.

When all had been laid out the Grand Master stood, the others following suit. He looked at them all. For a moment, Eversor thought he looked at him longer than the others. _Does he suspect anything? No, he could not, otherwise I would be dead._

"This meeting is adjourned. I will summon you in several days. Deploy your Assassins." And with that the man left through the door he had entered in hours ago. The Directors looked at one another, as if in deep contemplation, and then began to leave. As Eversor turned to leave, he noticed Vindicare and Vanus staying behind, close together, in deep discussion.

 _Dangerous._

It took him three hours and nineteen minutes to walk from the Shrouds into the Outer Palace, led by a servitor that underwent daily memory-wipes. The path it led him was not the one he had took when arriving and it would be a different one the next time he came and went. That is, if he were not to break every oath he had sworn to the Emperor and the Imperium. He stepped from the Inner to the Outer, the secret door he exited closing quietly behind him.

Taking less travelled halls, it took another four hours to reach a public transport rail. His mask was stored in his coat, synth-skin, a false nose, and eye contacts concealing his identity, albeit minutely compared to more advanced methods but it would do for the time being. Eversor strode to the rail, paying three coppers for a travel stub. The rail train left the station, heading south-west. It took six different trains, forty-three stops and nineteen hours, but eventually he left the continent-sprawling Palace.

Before him lay Kyro, capital of the province of Aegypt, the sky was crowded with air cars, transports, cargo haulers, dropships bearing Arbites livery and more, soaring to and fro, impervious to the madness that was to come. Terra had suffered under the Crimson King's psychic assault, Aegypt suffered almost as badly as the Palace oddly enough. If he were Vanus he would have rooted out the how and why, but he was not so he continued his trek into the massive hive city, heading towards Kyro's tertiary spaceport.

Security was heightened, Fulgrimian supporters initiating terrorist attacks having caused it. Most kept their faces blank and seemingly calm, but Eversor could smell their sweat, noticing their rigid movements. They were afraid. The unthinkable had happened: a primarch had raised the flag of open rebellion and seven of his brothers followed him. Almost half the Legiones Astartes were now fighting the other half, their allies fighting beside their masters across a hundred battlefields. There would be far more soon, he thought, far more battlefields. Baring his teeth for a moment, he took position in line. Soon, Terra would become a battlefield.

Passing by the security, heightened but amateurish at best for a Clade Director, Eversor walked further in, awaiting a sub-orbital flight to Anasee Station. Boarding the transport he made his way towards the rear. After a quick search, he found what he was looking for. Locker 43-C was unlocked and quickly he discarded the clothes and disguise he was wearing to don yet another false face and wear the clothes of an Enginseer. There was no worry the primary one would come, she was dead in a gutter, torn apart by one of his operatives.

He neared an inter-ship vox, keying the terminal for the cockpit. Adopting an accent that hailed from the slums surrounding Olympus Mons, he spoke. "Captain, Enginseer Dellon, replacement for Enginseer Cail, reporting."

 _"About bloody time,"_ responded an annoyed voice. _"What took you so long?"_

"The ineffective traffic control of the main hall…"

 _"Alright, alright, I get it. Well head over to the engine room and make sure everything is in working order."_

"Yes, sir."

The engine room was small, as befitting a ship such as this. He did check the engine, noting its smooth running. Looks like the dead Enginseer was good at her job. But he did not monitor it; rather he placed a small charge on the fuel pumps leading into the primary petrochem reactor. Micro-meltas were flea bites compared to the ones carried by the Astartes and Army demolition units, but it would work well enough here.

"Ready for flight, captain."

 _"Copy."_

The engine began to hum with power, the ship shaking with brute force as it defied gravity and made its way void-ward. They broke atmosphere soon after, heading towards the orbiting Anasee Station.

Jogging to the emergency airlock doors he donned a void-suit, the kind necessary for quick repairs whilst in deep space. Decompression and the subsequent opening of the door caused a klaxon to begin wailing, but he ignored it alongside the captain's frantic questions. Pushing from the metal, launching himself far into space, he activated the tracker signal. Within moments the stars in front of him disappeared and a black vessel picked him up with its yawning cargo hold. As pressure and gravity were reasserted he looked out the small view-port. The transport ship was twenty kilometres away now, but still within range of his detonator. Pushing the detonation rune he watched as the transport ship, filled with several hundred people, exploded like a Unity Day firework.

Doors hissed open behind him and he turned. A dozen men and women bowed their heads.

"Whom do you serve?" intoned Eversor.

"The True Emperor, Fulgrim the Phoenician."

The correct words being given Eversor walked past them and quickly reached the bridge. The stealth ship was one of many within the Officio Assassinorum's vast silent fleet. It was crewed by those from every Clade, but the agents aboard this particular vessel swore loyalty to Fulgrim and through the War Commander to Eversor as well.

Another twenty served on the bridge, some Assassins, the majority crewmembers.

"Head to the nearest Mandeville point, plot a course to the Danzen System."

As the crew went about their duty, Eversor went to the vox station. The vox here was powerful, powerful enough to reach the base in Sud Merika. Sitting down in the padded chair he swiveled to the cogitator runeboard. Typing in a frequency rarely used by the Officio he spoke a code-word that had been constructed several decades ago when Lorgar Aurelian had visited Sol. After the Word Bearers Primarch made a deal with the now deceased Kelbor-Hal the Sixteenth Primarch had discovered who Eversor's true identity was and had been waiting in his private apartments when the Clade Director had arrived. He still remembered that discussion.

 _"How do you know I will not report you to the Grand Master? How do you know I will not name you traitor in front of the Emperor?"_

 _Lorgar merely nodded in thought, his demeanour calm and confident. "You have an astute mind, Master Eversor. Use that mind, ponder the facts I have presented. You know the powers that back me, the war that is to come. The Emperor has lied to us, lied to us all for centuries, and He lays the foundations for a tyranny that cannot be allowed to come to pass. What will you choose to support: the dark truth or a honeyed lie?"_

And he chose that day, he chose to follow Lorgar's Primordial Truth, waiting when the Champion of Chaos was selected and declared. He had waited patiently for forty years and that patience was beginning to bear fruit. His supporters were many, though paled in comparison to the combined might of the other Clades. Even when Alpharius had declared his support to Lorgar and Fulgrim, giving Eversor access to some of the primarch's own extensive spy network and allowing an even more ambitious and deadly operation to be carried out with success, it still was small compared to what stood against him. But it would be enough to destabilise the Sol System for some time.

Clearing his throat, he pushed the record rune. "All cloaked operatives, initiate New Dawn Protocol. I repeat, all cloaked operatives, New Dawn Protocol is a go."

* * *

In the techno-jungle of northern Hy Brasil of Sud Merika, an Assassinorum facility was located, operated by agents from all Clades. It was one of two on Terra that gathered all information from across the Sol System, and through their tapping of all public and private frequencies they would pick up, decode, transcribe and store data ranging from communications between noble families, trade between Terra and the Solar Colonies, construction of ships and weapons on Mars, as well as transference of military material being shipped from the Red Planet to the Throneworld or from the Red Planet to countless Expeditionary Fleets. They even picked up transmissions between the Imperial Palace, some from Dorn to his sons, others from the Council of Terra, and even one from the Emperor Himself. Exabyte and exabyte of data, thousands of them, stored and catalogued. In the operations centre sat forty data-watchers, cogitator-operators and several technologians. The centre was a quiet bustle of work.

When data-watcher Jans Culpar heard the message emitting from near the site of a civilian transport's explosive demise on the path toward Anasee Station he knew what it would say.

Overriding locked systems and splicing the message into public data-streams and thousands of frequencies he looked about him and nodded to the six others. As the message played over the centre's primary speaker they withdrew carefully hidden weapons, compact needle guns made of plastek, and began to kill their fellows. Silent whistles of the needles soaring through the air killed dozens; the others lacked any weapons but their fists. They were employed by the Assassinorum, oath-bound and sworn to secrecy on pain of death, and faced vigorous physical and mental training, but they were not warriors, not Assassins, merely clerks and operational personnel. They ran for the thick adamantium blast doors, and screamed in horror as they closed. The few that made it to the door slammed fists on it even as the seven turncoats emptied their needle rounds into the survivors.

The seven made their way to various cogitator-consoles, initiating New Dawn Protocol. Already the word was spreading across Terra, across Sol. But that was not their focus, the data stored in the massive storage engines was. They copied the data, sending it via spliced streams of heavily encrypted data-bursts to a ship in orbit, crewed by fellow Fulgrimian conspirators.

When the information was copied and sent, the original files were deleted and the ghost remnants corrupted with viruses that would test even a Martian Adept to recover with any hope. It took an hour for all recent data of the past six months to be sent, deleted and corrupted. The information was compressed and would take their fellow agents weeks to reconstruct in any usable format but it deprived said information away from the loyalists.

As the transfer completed all seven looked at one another, nodding in satisfaction, ready for their sacrifice and glad they had served their War Commander.

Jans Cuplar spoke aloud for the first time since New Dawn was green-lit.

"Hail Fulgrim."

"Hail Fulgrim," the other chorused in unison.

Shortly after when the base's security detail plasma torched through the blast doors they found the seven insurgents dead, their eyes glazed and mouths filled with yellow-white foam, and a gap in their teeth, revealing the location of a hollow tooth that had been filled with poison.

* * *

The war on Mars continued without pause. Fought between the Emperor-loyal Adeptus Mechanicus led by Fabricator General Kane versus the Dark Mechanicum led by Tech-Adept Lukas Chrom, the war covered much of the world. Nearly a third of the Mechanicum had followed Chrom, for a variety of reasons ranging from disgust the Emperor's edicts on limiting or restricting certain fields of technological research and progression to fiercely debated doctrinal disputes over whether the Emperor was the Flesh Representation of the Omnissiah or a false god attempting to enslave the Cult Mechanicus into the Imperium. Religious foolishness.

Captain Rion Balcair of the Imperial Fists 177th Company stood on the bridge of the Seventh Legion strike cruiser _Valiant Front_. Around him the crew performed their tasks without unwanted comment. The world that dominated the primary view-screen was Mars itself, hovering like a red orb in the blackness of space. Around it the Ring of Iron circled, impressive and a feat of engineering. When word reached Terra of the Dropsite Massacre the traitor Adepts had shown their support for the newly proclaimed War Commander by instigating a massive attack against loyal Forges and their Adepts, spearheaded by the detachment of Iron Hands that arrived secretly.

It failed, but not before they had captured Olympus Mons and a dozen major Forges alongside a host of lesser ones in the opening offensive. The traitors had dug in, daring the loyalists to attack. Which, Balcair smirked, we did. Already two of the captured Forges had been liberated and seven outlying traitor Forges, cut off from their allies, had fallen swiftly. The Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors were making quick work of the traitors so far, but the frontlines had begun to stiffen as more and more rebel assets were being transferred from the reserve and rear areas to halt Imperial advances. Rumours of what his brothers and Fourth Legion cousins were fighting against made Balcair shake his head in pure loathing. Abominable Intelligence machines, legions of cheaply made battle-servitors, mingled with warp-energy to create bastardised weapon platforms of deadly efficiency. And that was only some of what they faced. The rumour that Chrom and his lackeys had opened the Vaults of Moravec had proven all too true early on.

"My lord," spoke Shipmaster Carden Veir. The man had broken his chain of thought. He would deal with whatever the shipmaster needed to discuss, then he would go back to his overview of the Martian civil war.

"Yes?" Balcair said as he stood over the mortal Legion serf-officer.

"My lord, I am picking up some odd vox chatter. Ensign Qurn made me aware of it."

"Such as?" The Astartes glanced sideways at the Master of Vox who turned back to his station.

"Well, the wording itself is simple enough, but it is coming across over a hundred frequencies, most public, but many are secure or used exclusively by military forces and government agencies."

"Play it aloud."

Veir pressed two runes and twisted a dial.

 _"…operatives, initiate New Dawn Protocol. I repeat, all cloaked operatives, New Dawn Protocol is a go. All cloaked operatives, initiate New Dawn Protocol. I repeat, all cloaked operatives, New Dawn Protocol is a go."_

Balcair eidetic memory shifted through the host of code-words, passcodes, operation names and more but he came up with nothing.

"Source?" he asked.

"The signal has bounced off four satellites but is originating from a rundown slum in northern Hy Brasil."

"Notify Lord Dorn, the Warmaster, Terran Command and the Legio Custodes in that order. They more than not already know but it is better to be precautious."

"Aye, lord." The shipmaster began issuing orders to Master Qurn, the man bent to his task as Balcair walked to his command throne. New Dawn. What could that be, he pondered.

 _Valiant Front_ rumbled as if struck by an iron fist.

Klaxons began to blare. It rumbled again.

"Status?" he barked as he seated himself. The ship shook once again.

"Internal explosions, Deck 3 through Deck 8 have all experienced explosions, possibly melta-bombs. Casualties heavy, several systems critically damaged." Veir looked up from his throne-chair. "My lord, coolant pipes have ruptured, the plasma reactor is in critical state."

"Shut it down. Now!"

"Aye, lord."

Another shake, then another, and a final one, this one stronger than the rest, as if a large hammer had swung at the starship.

"'By the Emperor…" whispered Veir.

Balcair brought up damage projections on the mini-hololithic projector situated on his throne. Not only were coolant feeds rupturing, spiking the reactor's temperature, but ammunition storerooms had exploded, though thankfully not the primary one, bearing ship-to-ship torpedoes.

"Wyles report," he ordered over the company's frequency.

Nothing.

"Veteran-Sergeant Wyles report!"

Nothing.

He brought up the pict-feed of his second-in-command, who guarded the primary ammunition storeroom with a fire team of Astartes. The pict-feed showed him not six Astartes on guard, but six dead Imperial Fists, their armour punctured by hundreds of ballistic rounds. Cycling through the recent capturing he saw his six Legion brothers become torn apart by weapon's fire off screen. What could sneak up on legionnaires like that, much less combat them?

A lone figure, clad in black, approached the sealed doors, but they opened after a moment's ministration by the stranger. Half a minute passed and the stranger emerged, heading towards the life-pods. Glancing at the mini-cogitator in the throne he saw that no life-pods had ejected. But judging from the quickness of the assailant he more than likely deactivated several portions of the ship's systems.

"Alpex!"

 _"Yes, lord captain?"_ responded the Techmarine.

"Go to the primary torpedo chamber and disable whatever the assailant has placed there."

 _"Aye, captain."_

"Attention crew of the _Valiant Front_ , there is a rebel agent on board, security teams make sweeps of all decks, Astartes of the 177th are to lead. All non-essential personnel make your way to lifeboats, life-pods or any available voidcraft. Evacuate to a safe distance until recalled."

If Alpex made it their in time, the situation could be recoverable. If-

The ship shook one last time and the stockpiled ship-to-ship torpedo cache exploded. With that explosion the _Valiant Front_ died, along with one hundred and seventeen Imperial Fists and over six thousand Legion serfs and ship crewmembers.

The only life-pod that had escaped contained a single passenger. She unbuckled the restraints and looked out at the viewport as the Astartes strike cruiser burned. Already emergency response vehicles were responding. Her pod's distress beacon was disabled, her Officio one active.

Within an hour a vessel of midnight colouring picked her up. The ship made its way to the closest Mandeville point. They were to meet in the Danzen System with Lord Eversor.

As the ship began its brute translation to the warp she spoke aloud and clearly for all the bridge crew to hear.

"Hail Fulgrim," and all repeated it, reverently.

* * *

Fabricator General Kane walked in the trenches near the ongoing Siege of Salkaus Forge. Artillery rumbled, aircraft roared overhead, and the mechanical clang of machines was constant. A flight of Storm Eagles dropped their payloads onto the outer suburbs of the Forge's residential district. Behind him strode Warsmith Golg and Captain Camba-Diaz of the Fourth and Seventh Legions respectively. Kane listened as they walked through the freshly dug trench.

"Adept Zon has approximately eighty thousand skitarii, three Titans of the Burning Stars Legion, several flights of aerospace defense interceptors and sixty Iron Hands. At current rate of advancement, we will storm the Forge's centre in about a month," spoke Golg.

Camba-Diaz grunted affirmation. "When this Forge falls, it will divide the traitor Forges in the Autonoct Deserts. From there we eliminate the rebel Adepts and their holdfasts, securing the vast manufactoria and freeing up units for deployment elsewhere across the Red Planet."

"Agreed," Golg said as they continued to trek. Our spies in Olympus Mons send disturbing reports of ghastly experiments taking place there under Chrom's rule. Some whisper of-"

Kane listened, grimacing as news of more battle robots, those that skirted the long agreed boundary between man-driven machine and Abominable Intelligence. It seemed that the 'Voice of the True Omnissiah' was quite willing to ignore and flaunt thousands of years of tradition and dogma outright, replacing it with vile tech-heresies and forbidden knowledge. Mankind had banned AI-constructs and research related to them for good reason, and the Emperor had supported and enforced that ban since the Treaty of Olympus was signed. Kane was admittedly not an ardent traditionalist, nor was he a fanatical tech-conservative, but it was clear to him that the Mechanicum had become bogged down and regressive over the millennia. The preservation of technology had taken precedence over progression and refinement. And through the passing of time, things were lost, knowledge, Forge Worlds with unique products, and innovation became stigma.

As it was clear to him, it was clear to many others too. These moderates almost universally aligned ideologically to the Imperial faction of the Mechanicum or at the very least allied with it, believing that close ties to the Imperium would result in another Golden Age for Mankind. Many in the Imperial faction believed the Emperor to be the Flesh-Representation of the Omnissiah. Kane himself did not wholly agree on this matter, but he believed the Emperor to be a great man, uniting Terra and Mars to integrate the galaxy into a single empire for the betterment of humanity was proof enough of that. The wars between Mankind's homeworld and the first Forge World were nothing but destructive for both sides. The conservatives on the other hand, either were horrified by the thought of technological advancement, and even some of the refinements undertaken since the Treaty, disturbed them to no end. While many conservatives were Imperial factions, a majority were either stubbornly neutral between the two, or were unsatisfied with the place of the Mechanicum within the Imperium, stating that Mars was nothing more than another vassal planet to the Throneworld. Foolishness perhaps and bigoted in many ways, but this faction had until recently ruled Mars.

His thoughts drifted back to the past few years. Kelbor-Hal, Kane's predecessor, was the leader of the ultra-conservatives. The alliance between Mars and Terra was only barely acknowledged. Kelbor-Hal had for many years been quietly disgruntled and annoyed with the Emperor. Kane knew of this as he had been the man's successor and interacted with him regularly. But in the last few months prior to his death, Kelbor-Hal had voiced few complaints and cooperated with the Emperor and Malcador more efficiently than previous centuries, especially when the Warmaster had been brought to Terra for healing. Kane did not know why the sudden change of direction, but had been thankful for it. But it seemed that change of heart had angered the more hardline groups of the Mechanicum. Oh, Lukas Chrom denied any involvement, but it was clear to many, especially the neutrals and more moderate conservatives that Chrom had instigated the assassination of Kelbor-Hal, subtly shifting the blame on the Imperium.

Initially, it had not been so clear. The shock of assassination, the change in regime when Kane had risen to the Fabricator General, the psychic assault by Magnus, news of the Night Lords going rogue… It had been too much to discover the truth of Kelbor-Hal's death. In those months of confusion, Chrom had worked quickly and quietly, cementing his hold on the conservatives and extremists. When news of the Dropsite Massacre reached Sol, Chrom launched his open rebellion in support of the War Commander, leading nearly a third of the Priesthood in rebellion. The initial attacks had been devastating, allowing the rebel Mechanicum to capture vast swathes of land, including Olympus Mons itself. Chrom's armies, assisted by thousands of Iron Hands, had only been stopped at great cost to the loyalist Mechanicum. Kane had feared the war on Mars would be ignored by Terra, as more and more reports of Fulgrim's rebellion spreading saw massive redeployments of Imperial forces. Kane worried that since the Martian rebels had been contained, then the Imperium would ignore them until Fulgrim had been dealt with. The new Fabricator General had never been so relieved to be wrong. Shortly after the rebels, the Dark Mechanicum as they were styling themselves, had been stopped, an impressive taskforce made up of legionnaires from the Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists had arrived to not merely enforce the rebels' containment, but to defeat them and secure Mars entire.

That had been only a scant few months ago. The Imperium now fought beside the Mechanicum, hand in hand, comrades-in-arms, to defeat the heretical ilk of Mars.

Shaking his head minutely, as unmodified humans were known to do, Kane looked towards the rebel Forge before him, gauging its defiance. The act of doing so undoubtedly saved him his natural eyes. Kane was facing the other way when a bright light followed by a wave of heat and dust blew by. Turning he saw a mushroom cloud growing from behind the trench lines, tens of kilometres back.

An atomic bomb, a small one at that, but destructive nonetheless, and as the radioactive dust-wall spread to him, he knew the war on Mars had become much worse.

* * *

Shield-Captain Amon Tauromachian strode down the vast hallways and monolithic chambers that made up the Imperial Palace. Behind him marched an honour guard of ten Custodes as per custom for Master of the Watch.

Amon listened to his vox-bead like a hawk hearing for prey, a hand gripped on the golden Guardian-Spear of the Legio. As he marched through the Garden of Anaton in Doman's Ward he listened patiently as the four non-Custodes stated their various cases.

"I need more men, great lord," muttered Noan Cartell, Representative of the Terran Masonic Guilds.

"Then why have you come to me, I wonder, Master Cartell?" Amon asked quietly, patiently, with dry overtones. The thud of his Guardian-Spear on the stone path echoed softly through the garden's walkway, not loud enough to disturb the quiet serenity of this out of the way garden. Imported birds chirped a song of reflection, a song of peace. It was no longer the song of the galaxy, he thought wryly.

"I… I…" The Guild Representative stuttered. Amon had preferred talking to the Representative of the Artisan Guilds. Those guildmen had been experts in their craft, of crafting beauty and endurance in their works, their finest being the Imperial Palace. Many talks of their craft between Amon and its members occurred. Unfortunately recent events caused their priorities to change. The Artisans even now tore down their works, replacing with more stark constructs. They were building not for majesty or fame, but to ready the Palace for the assault that was sure to come. The Artisans were many hundreds of thousands and it took them roughly two hundred years to largely complete the Emperor's home, but the Palace was continent-spanning and the Imperium did not have two hundred years to refurbish a palace into a fortress.

"Speak, Master Cartell. I have much business to attend to."

"Uhm, yes, great lord… Uhm."

"Now, Master Cartell," Amon said, tone sharpening in annoyance. He wondered why Shield-Captain Borge Kuellin had given him a slight smirk when the Watch had transferred from him to Amon. The man knew of this appointment! Amon shook his head in amusement. He would repay his fellow Custodian with the _kindness_ shown to him.

"Right." The man took a deep breath. "I need more men, great lord."

"Why?"

"Lord Dorn wants Sectors 157 through Sector 184 to be reinforced as per his specifications within seven months. With the resources at my disposal, it will take me almost a year to finish."

"I see." Amon paused, turning to look at the mortal. "Again, why come to me?"

"I was hoping you-"

"Stop."

The man shut his mouth so quickly it clicked.

"I am not a builder of emplacements or erector of walls. That is the skill and prerogative of the noble Fourth and Seventh. You should go to Lord Dorn as he is the Emperor's Praetorian. It is to him our defenses are entrusted. He has the resources for you."

"Lord Dorn's schedule is hectic. I would not be able to garner an audience in almost a month, further delaying my work teams."

"I see." Amon began walking once more, boots crunching on loose gravel. The Custodes followed as if they had not stopped, the mortals having to walk quickly to keep up their longer strides. Daily Palace schedules, who was where and more flicked through his genehanced mind. "Warsmith Dantioch is in the Silver Hall, holding several briefings with his officers. Meet him there in three hours. Through him, you can talk to the Praetorian. I will send word to Dantioch about you, he will be ready."

"Thank you, great lord!" The man bowed a half dozen times until he quickly walked away.

"Next."

Eiden Quinzell moved forward quickly. "My lord Custodian…" began the ambassador. Amon wanted to sigh, but he did not. Being Master of the Watch was a great honour, but the honour rarely surpassed the monotonous details and tasks the Master was to take care of for his one day command. Being Master accomplished two primary objectives. It lessened the burden on the Captain-General, allowing him to avoid a majority of the tasks deemed beneath him so he could concentrate on protecting the Emperor, while also giving command experience to the Master.

"…and that is why it would be quite impactful if a member of the Emperor's personal guard were to attend the ceremony-"

An explosion shook the Palace, followed by several more. As soon as the first shockwaves began, the Custodes fanned out in a defence perimeter at the intersection they found themselves in. Amon switched from the general Palace frequency to the encoded Custodes-only frequency.

"Hegemon Tower, report." Calm, he was calm, like the eye of a storm.

 _"Explosions throughout the Outer Palace, principally in administrative districts, casualties are high but the damage is being contained. Custodes squads are being dispatched to investigate."_

"Is the Emperor secure?" he demanded.

 _"Yes, sir,"_ reported the Tower operator. _"The Three Hundred Companions are with Him. Captain-General Valdor is leading another three thousand Custodians to reinforce the Inner Sanctum. Sisters of Silence are deploying, setting up a screen around the Throne Room. Legio Cybernetica units are in position, as are the Palace Auxilia. The Iron Warriors, Imperial Fists, Death Guard and Sons of Horus are alerted and are securing their predetermined stations."_

"And the lord primarchs?"

 _"The Warmaster was in conference with Lord Dorn and Lord Mortarion when the explosions occurred. Their respective bodyguards are with them, but company-sized units from all three Legions are moving towards them, reinforcing the conference chamber."_

"Good, good. Send several squads as a precaution, but do not supersede the Astartes protection of their sires."

 _"Aye, shield-captain."_

Amon's mind raced. The Emperor and His progeny were as secure as they could be. They were out of his hands now. Most of the Legio was either guarding the Emperor, on their way to do so, making their way to the Seventh, Fourteenth and Sixteenth Son, or standing at their posts throughout the Palace. Much of the Reserve had been dispatched to the Outer Palace, to investigate the explosions.

A thought struck him.

"The Regent? His location, now."

 _"He is in the Schaekespear Theatre, observing the weekly play."_ The Legio knew where Lord Malcador was at all times if possible, to better protect him. Though the Regent slipped through their security network on occasion, he was always watched when his location was known.

"Get to him and evacuate him now."

 _"Sir, there are no units available nearby. You are the closest."_

"There are guards accompanying the Regent, correct?"

 _"Yes, sir. Custodians Gen and Tyril."_

"Patch me to them."

A moment. _"Sir, I am unable. It appears to be jammed."_

Amon ran down the corridors leading to the Theatre. "Custodes, to me!" he barked. To the Tower, he said, "I am inbound to the Regent. Send reinforcements as soon as they are available."

 _"Aye, sir."_

* * *

Malcador sat in his plain yet excellently woven pale grey robes, the blandness of them drawing the eye when compared to the rich embroidery and silks worn by the nobles around him. They oohed and awed as the play before them continued. Malcador the Sigillite, First Lord of the Council of Terra, Regent of Terra, right-hand and confidant of the Emperor, frowned slightly in the recesses of his raised hood. He had come to watch, not to listen to unwanted noise. He disliked listening to voices in a theatre. Subtly, ever so slightly, he flexed his psyker prowess, planting the suggestion of respectful silence into those near his observatory box. The exclamations continued from the crowd, but much reduced and quieter.

Shifting to gain a more comfortable position, he looked upon the painted faces of the play's actors. The story was ancient, written by the man whom the theatre was named after. It detailed how a powerful general betrayed his monarch, seizing the throne for himself, but died as his kingdom of Kaledonia began to turn upon itself. The usurper was killed, his wife dead too, and the monarchy restored.

Malcador thought the play being performed as ironic, considering the circumstances the Imperium found itself in. The play had been ordered and tasked to perform on this day almost two years ago. The training and mock-performances had been, according to all accounts, excruciating. Not only was the theatre group to perform in front of Malcador, but it had been heavily hinted the Emperor would attend as well. Unfortunately recent events had prevented the Emperor from doing so, and He did not want to cancel the play, lest it be seen that a play based on civil war and regicide bothered the Master of Mankind. It would have likely led to some nobles whispering sedition at best, at worst there would have been more Fulgrimian supporters than there already were.

As the first act ended, the second one about to begin, the pulse from his dearest friend came to him.

 _+Malcador, shield yourself.+_

Instantly the Sigillite brought an invisible shield of warp-energy around him, his old eyes watching for potential threats. Leadership of the Assassins had granted him skills many did not know he possessed. Nothing seemed amiss, but when the Emperor gave warning, it was doubtless for good reason. Realising his position was precarious; the micro-ballistic shield that hummed slightly as it remained powered on could easily be pierced by power drawn from the warp or specially designed sniper bullets. His warp field was little better if the correct weapon was used.

The theatre chamber had too many open sights, too many vectors of probability. He needed to withdraw, place himself in a secured location until he found out what was happening. As he rose from the chair, he felt the minute vibrations and knew them for what they were.

Hoisting his Aquila Staff with its enflamed eagle, he withdrew from the theatre as quietly as he could, knowing the assembled nobles would have thought nothing of it. He sent a wave of soothing over them, with a layer of relaxation and satisfaction.

None noticed as he left, their eyes partially glazed as their minds became sluggish for a moment. If any saw him leave, there would have been much discussion, stopping the play and allowing the assembled peerage a chance to know something was wrong. It was better for them to stay, safer too.

As he left by a side door, he flicked his wrist in a 'come out' gesture and two Custodians withdrew from the dark corners.

"Lord Malcador," they bowed their heads in respect. "We have lost communications with areas outside of Van Sloan Museum to the Crystal Chamber. Explosions have been felt, but we are as of yet unaware of the extent of damage or casualties."

Malcador nodded as he walked between them. They followed on his heels, loyally, their Guardian-Spears sharpened and loaded, helms moving side to side ever so slightly, ever aware of danger.

Few met them in the many paths they took. Most were Palace personnel who shuffled warily by, almost oblivious to the presence of two of the Emperor's augmented protectors and chosen Regent.

Ahead came the booming of ceramite boots on marbled floors. Malcador pushed himself against a recess in the wall, where a bust of an ancient king looked on with grim disapproval. The two Custodes aimed their Spears to where the sound was originating.

What erupted from the corner were eleven more of the Ten Thousand. Malcador recognized them; he prided himself on knowing the name of all members of the Legio Custodes. Stepping back into the light, he raised a hand in welcome at the approaching gold warriors.

"Shield-Captain Tauromachian, a pleasant surprise," he said not unkindly. His voice hardened, "What is happening?"

The Custodes surrounded Malcador and Amon Tauromachian as the Custodian commander detailed all that had happened since communications had been blocked. The enlarged party now moved towards the nearest secure chamber.

As Tauromachian stopped talking, Malcador spoke, "You did well, shield-captain. Though it seems the enemy has no de-"

A fiery roar echoed from the hall behind them. The Custodes turned as one, ready for violence. Malcador ventured with his mind to see what had happened. Wincing, he withdrew the mental probe. The theatre chamber was no more, it had been bombed and now hundreds were dead. Would any have been alive if he had not becalmed them while he left? Their sense of safety forced them to stay, therefore leading to their deaths. Sighing, he pushed the thought out of his mind. Many had died due to his commands or actions, and many more would in the future. Of that he was sure of.

"My lord, we must depart."

"Quite right, Tauromachian, lead on."

The assembled men strode briskly through the empty halls, passing priceless artefacts and expertly crafted marble busts of Imperial heroes and heroines. Those faces looked on impassively, gravely, eternally.

 _+They come. Beware.+_

"Hold," Malcador commanded.

The Custodians quickly took up positions in the intersection when Malcador spoke, ready for orders.

"Lord Malcador?" queried Amon.

"Enemy forces approaching. Ready yourselves."

The Custodian officer nodded and began issuing orders. None questioned what the Regent said. They trusted him, and he them.

Within moments footsteps could be heard from multiple corridors. Some boots, others bare feet. The Custodes covered the multiple approach vectors, but by the amount of footsteps, many were coming. Very many.

The architecture in this sector enhanced sound. To an unaided human it was distant thunder. To Malcador's psychic and the Custodians genhanced senses it was an encroaching storm.

The footsteps manifested in bodies as they sprinted towards them.

"Halt!" yelled Amon, his voice augmented by his helm's speakers. The rushing crowds, hundreds strong, with ever more coming, ran towards them, their faces wracked with anger and despair, their eyes black as a moonless night.

"Halt in the name of the Emperor!"

Something was wrong. Something _felt_ wrong. Closing his flesh eyes, he opened his mind's eye and nearly staggered by what he saw. They bore marks under their clothes, marks given in damnable prayer and belief.

The men and women rushing towards them were human, physically, but their minds were corrupted, broken. He heard screaming, weeping, and pleading. They were lost in their own psyches, prisoners of their own body. He could see the mark that overrode their individuality, a mark that loomed over them like a shadow, an eight pointed star imprinted on them.

They were…

"Tainted," he rasped. "They are tainted, Amon. Kill them. Kill them now!"

The Custodes did not hesitate. Bolter fire erupted from their Guardian-Spears into the front ranks of the onrushing horde. Bolts of such calibre were designed to kill any that could theoretically compete with any of the Emperor's protectors. This ranged from brutish Orks, lithe Eldar- traitor Astartes- and a host of other threats. It was a brute weapon in execution, but effective. To mortals adorned without armour and carrying little in the way of weapons other than knives and cudgels, it was a massacre.

Blood, viscera, and bone painted the gilded hall, designed as if by madmen. The horde had no chance, their bodies piling up, clogging the hall.

Malcador raised an eyebrow. Why were these… cultists, he guessed was the correct word, attacking in this fashion. They were not ready for such an attack, their ambush poorly conceived. Attacking here made no sense. Unless…

Malcador thought of where they were, of this specific corridor and specific intersection. He knew the Palace schematics better than most. The vents above them were not cycling air, they were not working, or, as his mind raced through thoughts and variables, they were not turned on. Realisation came, but it was too late.

"Shield-Captain Tauromachian, there-"

The vents blew and four assailants fell to the ground. Clad in black body-glove and armed with power swords they spread out, intent to kill clear in their stances. The Regent raised his hand to burn them with witch-fire but nothing came from his outstretched hand. Nothing.

It could not be but the elongated skull-formed helmet and the sense of nothingness, blankness, _wrongness_ , emanating from them named them for what they were. Pariahs. Worse, they were Assassins of the Culexus Clade; _his_ Assassins.

Three of the Culexus engaged the Custodians nearby who were responding to this new threat. The fourth moved to him, quickly, efficiently, deadly. But Malcador was not Grand Master of the Officio Assassinorum just because he was an effective organiser and implementer. He had training. Void of his psyker abilities, he would have to depend on his physical abilities.

Raising his staff, he prepared to defend himself.

He did not have to, thankfully. A silver spear pierced through the pariah's chest. Looking down, the Assassin paused over the lethal blade. Within a minor twist and pull the Assassin's spine had been severed. Crumpling to the ground, the Assassin pulled itself across the floor, heading toward Malcador.

Amon Tauromachian stood over the Culexus. "Most resilient," he said, grudged approval evident. His Guardian-Spear's metre long blade pierced the skull of the Assassin, ending its life.

Malcador looked around him, noting all four the Assassins were dead, though five Custodians lay as corpses.

The bolter fire ceased, the horde of cultists dead. Smoke and death hung in the air as Amon moved towards him.

"My lord," he said, gesturing towards where their secure chamber was nearby, "we must continue."

"Agreed," Malcador rasped. Clearing his throat, he gazed around him, taking a close note on the four dead Assassins. "Lead, Shield-Captain. After this, there will be a reckoning."

* * *

Eversor nodded as data scrolled on the cogitator's monitor. New Dawn had proceeded quite well. Hundreds of Throne-loyal Astartes were dead, tens of millions of other Imperials as well, critical Officio information acquired and it denied to the Emperor, and above all chaos reigned in the Sol System. Though Malcador still lived, and reports from the atomic bombings on Mars delayed accurate details, he had accomplished much. Fulgrim would be pleased, especially with how much Eversor was bringing to his side.

Pushing himself from the chair he had sat in for hours while he observed, he turned to the shipmaster, who stood at patient attention nearby. "Translate into the warp. The War Commander is waiting."

"Aye, my lord." The man's head bowed, leaving to give the order.

The ebon coloured ship entered the Mandeville point and quickly rode the currents of the Immaterium, heading to their destination.

* * *

 **Three days later**

The Shrouds was quieter than usual. Not even servitors walked the corridors near the hidden room. A single man was visible at the table, data-slates before him. Hands steeped together, silver mask catching the light of lumen strips, the Grand Master of Assassins waited patiently in the light, the corners of the room were dark, the blinds closed.

The Directors began to arrive.

Sire Vindicare arrived first, followed by Siress Callidus. Within ten minutes the other three had arrived. All noted the absence of their sixth member. They sat, shuffling uncomfortably.

"Now that we are all gathered, we will begin. Report."

The five masters and mistresses of the Clades did so. Casualties among the Clades, their networks of information and operatives damaged precariously so, statistics of lost Imperial soldiers and civilians throughout what was quickly being called the Night of Silent Knives. Each went through their reports, detailed and stark. None could risk leaving anything out, lest they seem suspicious.

When all had finished, the Grand Master processed the information in silence. After a moment he spoke.

"Two percent of Culexus, nine percent of Vindicare, thirteen percent of Callidus, eighteen percent of Vanus, twenty-seven percent of Venunum, and to our knowledge the entirety of Eversor; the projected amount of those that have joined the rebellion. This is a catastrophe."

The others were glum and quiet.

"In one solar day these traitor Assassins," the Grand Master nearly spat those words, "have caused devastation on such a scale not seen in Sol since the Unification Wars." He gestured towards the data-slates. "A manufactoria in Nord Merika destroyed, four hundred thousand dead; Bursian Drydock, seventy-six thousand; Palace bombings, almost eighteen thousand; atomic bombings on Mars, fifty-one million so far with more added hourly. We are lucky the Fabricator General and leading Astartes officers were far enough away when the detonations happened!" The Grand Master slammed his left hand on the desk, causing the others to look at it as if it were a viper.

"And that is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. We have almost two hundred civilian ships destroyed or heavily damaged, sixty-five Imperial Army ships, seven Mechanicum, and three Astartes. Production system-wide has decreased. Riots are even more rampant, panic is increasing. The Emperor Himself is soon to go on the vox and view-screens to personally assure the populace of our ability to defend this star system from rebel attack!"

The Grand Master rose. The others rising in response, but a chopped motion settled them.

"The corruption of our organization has caused… questions to be asked by high authorities."

"High authorities, Grand Master?" queried Vanus.

"Yes, high authorities," he snapped. "And it is leading to changes."

"Changes?" Siress Venenum asked warily.

"Changes," he confirmed. The Grand Master looked to the pitch black corners. "It is time."

The Directors turned around, gasping at the figures that emerged.

Warmaster Horus Lupercal, Praetorian Rogal Dorn, Death Lord Mortarion, and Captain-General Constantin Valdor walked into the light. The Directors all attempted to rise and bow at once, but Horus waved them to sit. The Lupercal was healthy and whole, hale as the day he accepted the mantle of Warmaster. The infection that had laid him low on Davin was gone and his recovery complete. He spoke, the primarch's voice a mixture of nobility, dominance, command.

"No more secrets, no more shadows." Horus looked at them all. "No more masks."

The hands of the five Directors reached for their masks almost by instinct to follow the commands of a primarch. They noticed the Grand Master was doing the same. Needless to say, revelations were made that day as the Clade Masters and Mistresses found out the real identity of their fellow Assassin leaders, but most shocking of all had been that the Grand Master was Malcador the Sigillite.

An era belonging to the Great Crusade passed that day, never to return. The war of hidden motives, cloaked daggers, and total autonomy faded as the Sol System recovered from the Night of Silent Knives. The era of Fulgrim's Heresy demanded change, and change was put into motion. By command of the Emperor, His sons Horus, Dorn and Mortarion, and chief protector Valdor pulled back the veil that had shrouded the Officio Assassinorum throughout the entirety of its operational history.

Changes were enacted, plans adapted, new missions created with oversight. The Assassins were integrated into the Imperium's vast military might, their targets selected even more carefully than before. The Assassins were forced to change, but the Imperium needed them still. Despite the treachery of so many, they were necessary. If beloved primarchs and noble Astartes could betray the Emperor, then others could and would as well.

The Imperium and its silent office of killers, sharpshooters, poisoners, information-gathers, and untouchables reformed, but still they were put to use, slowing the Traitor Legions as much as possible. Necessity demanded it. Fulgrim was on his way to Terra, and Mankind shuddered at the thought of the inevitable confrontation between the Emperor and His wayward son.


	8. White Scars

**White Scars – Champions of Pain and Pleasure**

 _Bitter and disillusioned with the Imperium, the White Scars were destined to fall to the clutches of Slaanesh. Fueled by vainglory and insatiable drive for their inner desires, the once noble and proud warriors of Chogoris have devolved into monstrous hunters over the weak, ever driven to fulfil their cravings and depredations all in the name of their god and gene-sire._

 _Tempted, then seduced into service to Slaanesh, the White Scars are now the harbingers of decadence and pain, enslaving countless millions in their ventures into Imperial space._

-Inquisitorial report D6-44-E3-VX-2Y, Classified: Vermilion

 _"Politics? Politics bore me, brother."_

-Attributed to Jaghatai Khan, Primarch of the Fifth Legion, during the Ullanor Triumph.

 **Origins-**

The world that would become the home of the Emperor's Fifth Son was named Mundus Planus, known as Chogoris by its inhabitants. It was a lush and fertile world, with azure seas and soaring mountains of breath-taking beauty. The people of Chogoris were divided into two distinct societies, the civilised feudal imperials and the nomadic tribal plainsmen. It was among the second that the Fifth Primarch would land amongst, deep in the Empty Quarter, west of the Civilised Lands that was dominated by an emperor known as the Palatine, loosely translated from the Chogorian word Khagan by Imperial linguists, meaning a "khan of khans" in Khorchin.

Multiple tribes, prophesising that a child of destiny would fall from the stars and unite them, moved toward where his life-pod crashed, hoping to claim him and he be their herald of dominance. It was there where a dozen tribes would fight to claim the star child.

 _Ong Khan of Tribe Talskar moved like wind, his horse's legs whirring as they galloped towards the crater where the sky metal had fallen. Beside him rode the entirety of Talskar's warriors, spears clenched in tight fists, arrows drawn on bows, sun tanned cheeks marked by pale scars._

 _His eyes swept the land before him, arid with ko'tesh stalks limp. The drought was becoming worse; it had not rained in nearly five moons, an unusual occurrence, one that whispered of dark omens._

 _Before him, as he reined in his horse and Talskar warriors joined the fray, he saw thousands of warriors from eleven tribes fighting for leagues around. Curved sword crossed with spear, spear met axe, and axe entangled with dagger while arrows reigned over their heads, impaling scores with every volley. All fought to near the sky metal that lay in a small crater of its own making. The metal steamed and hissed as if fresh from the forge, a double-headed birdlike creature dominated the front, a stylised 'V' in the centre of the bird's body. It was exactly as his Stormseers predicted it would be, their dreams had foretold this. The sky metal contained a child, a boy that would become Khan of the World, a star child who would lead a people to victory, power and wealth. A boy that was prophesised to either be their saviour or, as the Stormseers whispered to him a moon ago behind tears of blood, their destroyer if Ong did not recover him._

 _"Forward Talskar! Encircle the metal, retrieve the star child!" The Talskari might have only numbered several hundred but they were fierce warriors, renown throughout much of the Empty Quarter from the Khagan's empire to the east to the dominant Khum Karta Mountains to the west._

 _The Talskari charge killed hundreds initially but once the horsemen met the wall of flesh, metal and leather, the charge was broken. The other tribes were not as skilled as they, but had the numbers and many turned from killing each other to engage the new threat._

 _Talskar fought Bhelog, then Ja'Ha'Di, then Kurayed, then another while more soon followed. Many died within moments but Ong quickly reached the sky metal, the hissing having stopped, steam only barely noticeable. He reached for the metal, knowing if he were to open it the star child would be his and the tribe's, their saviour and defender._

 _A jagged blade severed his outstretched hand. Hissing with pain, Ong turned to the tribesman who wounded him. His hiss sputtered and died as he recognised the warrior before him. Gansu Khan of Tribe Kurayed was tall and broad, strong in physicality and strategy. The man had tried three times to wipe out the Talskar, each failing but coming closer than most others had. The blood-feud between the two tribes was legend even amongst the eternally infighting nomads._

 _"And here I thought the Talskari too cowardly to come."_

 _Ong bared his teeth. "The Talskar are braver by far than you Kurayeds. You, who would rather pillage, murder and raid, than fight in open battle with honour."_

 _"Honour?" Gansu barked with dark laughter. "What honour is there is being a corpse? I take what I want, when I want it. None can say to me otherwise, the few that have are either dead or slaves. You preen over honour yet your numbers are so few when compared to mine."_

 _Ong shook his head in disgust. The Kurayed was a raider, a taker and a conqueror, not a unifier like himself. He raised his blade but knew he could not take on the other man, not in his wounded state. He would die, and for nothing. Glancing at the sky metal, he knew what to do. If he could not have the boy, then no one would._

 _The Talskar Khan rushed the sky metal, catching Gansu off guard, the other having expected the Talskari to rush him. Putting his hand on the metal, he found a lever of some sort and pulled. Nothing. He heaved, putting all his weight into it. The lever moved slowly, then suddenly it creaked open and revealed what lay inside._

 _He raised his sword but stopped. The child of the heavens looked at him levelly, dark eyes unblinking. The boy must not have been more than seven or eight but those eyes beheld a wisdom and strength many of the Wise Ancients did not have. He lowered the blade and the child's eyes followed it, cursing his inability to kill the boy, but something about him prevented the act from proceeding. Ong was calmer, more thoughtful, at peace. The child's face was blank, impassive as stone._

 _Ong opened his mouth, wanting to explain what he had been about to do but no longer wanting to. Perhaps… perhaps if the boy spoke to-_

 _Gansu's sword impaled the older Khan in the back, severing his spine and slicing through multiple organs. Ong's lungs emptied themselves of air and he stood there shocked and filled with horror._

 _Gansu pulled the blade free, gore dripping from steel. The Kurayed raised his sword to end Ong but stopped as the boy spoke._

 _"No."_

 _Surprisingly, Gansu stopped, and looked at the boy with confusion and wonder intermixed._

 _Ong felt a glimmer of hope as the child stepped from the pod and knelt in the dirt. He cupped Ong's face, surprising the Khan with their strength, whilst deft fingers drifted over the pale scars on his cheeks. Curiosity and an astounding intelligence lurked behind those eyes, but when they flicked to Ong's sword, they turned dark with anger._

 _The hands that cupped his head became gripped, more firm. Ong knew what was to come, and he did not stop it, nor could he._

 _The star child that came from the sky metal entombment, snapped Ong Khan of Talskar Tribe's neck with his bare hands on the endless dry plains of the Empty Quarter. Those before him stopped their fighting between each other, watching with wonder as the child walked naked from his metal prison, right hand holding Ong Khan's blood-strewn sword and left clutching the old Khan's decapitated head. As the child passed them, the warriors sunk to their knees as his mere presence compelled thousands of tribesmen to kneel in subservience._

A storm formed over them, wind whistling as it blew by. Rain darkened the sky as rainwater fell in torrents for the first time in several moons. Before the thunder drowned out the wind, many would whisper that they heard laughter in the cold wind. A feminine-like laughter but not one anyone would associate with a woman. This held malice, pain dispensed to give pleasure, desire bequeathed to draw out agony. It seemed a promise, a promise of madness, hunger, pride, debauchery. It was a promise of darkness whispered by a prince of hell.

As the dust of battle settled with the newly arrived storm's pattering rainfalls, Gansu Khan of Kurayed Tribe adopted the star child, naming him Jaghatai. The newly named demigod integrated the tribes that had fought around him in the Battle over the Falling Star into his adopted tribe. The Kurayeds, now larger and more powerful than ever before, began a war of conquest and unification amongst the plainsmen never before seen.

Gansu would raise Jaghatai as a son, teaching him war, strategy, poetry and more, the Kurayed heir learning at an astonishing rate. Within a few short years, Jaghatai became a primarch grown; standing taller than any other with the strength of a thousand men and an insight surpassing all that had come before him. During his adoption in battle and the years since, Jaghatai had led hosts of warriors in Gansu's name to victory after victory against the tribes that defied them, earning him the name Warhawk. While the Kurayed Khan was known as unforgiving and his conquests were more often than not bloody, Jaghatai was different. The primarch encouraged unity amongst the tribes, stating that his tribe was simply first among equals, not lording over all others like the Palatine in the high steppes. Many were conquered, but even more were assimilated peacefully. To encourage this unity, culture was shared; warriors from different tribes grouped together and trained to fight as a unit putting aside their differences and focusing on their similarities. While Jaghatai was Kurayed raised, he did have an appreciation for the subjected tribes, taking from them particular traditions and traits he saw as favourable.

From the Ghalkden, Jaghatai adopted the use of tattooing an individual's life history onto their body, leaving bare only the head and hands. From the Zu Shu he adopted the notoriously harsh training regime that allowed all Zu Shu to fight with the skill of five men. From the P'tahal the short throwing javelin they were famed for was adopted. From the Yuumtamai he adopted the quick firing crossbows, useful on horseback. From the Ka'Nafel was the usage of Stormseers in battle adopted, allowing their warp-gifts to annihilate all that resisted. Many tribes were incorporated into the Kurayed empire, but none influenced Jaghatai more than the Talskar Tribe. From them, the primarch learned of refined military tactics that the Talskari were famed for; of complicated yet beautifully written poetry with deeper philosophical meanings in every verse. The most obvious, besides the military traits, was the adoption of the Talskari ritual scarring. When a warrior trainee had completed his exhausting and brutal training, he was brought before a Stormseer and an assemblage of veteran warriors. There he took a new name and received two pale scars, one on each cheek, signifying his joining of something greater than himself, pledging his life to Khan and _ordu_.

While Gansu and his primarch-led armies slowly but surely conquered the Empty Quarter, the Palatine of the high steppes, an emperor whose name is now lost to time, grew worried at the reports of tribal unification. Particularly worrying were the rumours that an angel from the stars bearing the moniker of Warhawk had come to aid the western savages. For generations the tribes had been individually strong but weak when facing the might of his family's empire, and rare was it when a tribal khan attempted to invade the high steppes, even rarer for successfully bypassing the highly-trained Steppe Patrol. So troubled was Civilised Land's ruler that he ordered all forces available to him: the nobility and their guards, imperial army, and the Steppe Patrol to assemble for a pre-emptive strike into the Empty Quarter to kill this Jaghatai of Kurayed before he became a larger threat than he already was.

Within several months over two hundred thousand men had been called. Soldiers, mercenaries, armsmen and others readied their vast army for the descent into the endless plains. The Palatine personally led this army, his sons accompanying him, acting as generals. For days they marched largely unopposed, defeating those few that contested them as they warred deeper and deeper into the enemy territory.

A month passed and the Army of the Palatine was growing restless. They had journeyed a hundred leagues into the Empty Quarter, but Jaghatai and his tribal alliance refused to come to battle. Many thought the Warhawk a coward, unwilling to fight in this ultimate confrontation between the steppes and plains. As the nobles drank to their surely inevitable victory, reports came to them of supply lines being attacked. Entire convoys had gone missing and the stream of supplies had slowed. Showing little concern the Palatine dispatched his second son with ten thousand men to secure their supply lines, confident they would be able to halt the incessant skirmishing.

Another month passed and supplies became cut off altogether and no word from his son came through. The Palatine was beginning to worry when a rider in his colours came galloping from the east. But good news was not to be given that day. Instead, the Palatine was presented with the jewelled fingers of his son and a message written by Jaghatai that his wretched spawn and the entire army dispatched lay dead.

Enraged, the khan of khans marched eastward, back towards his empire. All along the way the Army was attacked by small parties, eliminating scouts, and causing the Palatine's troops to ever be on high alert. The raids were lighting fast, destructive and the raiders would disappear as quickly as they appeared. Weeks later the Palatine found his second son's army, all dead with their heads impaled on spears, pikes and javelins. The son-general was raised above his soldiers on a small hill, head facing skyward with eyes plucked out by ravens with a spear point emerging from a ruined throat.

The next day, after burying a son, the Palatine's force met Jaghatai's for the first time en masse since embarking on campaign. Almost two hundred thousand faced an army a quarter of their size. While the nobles and the Palatine were confident, the bulk of their soldiers were tired, lean from weeks of half-rations and irritated at the lack of success. Morale was low and confidence in their commanders weak since they saw the field of death the day before.

 _Pikeman Jai Juson marched across the open field. Beside him marched thirty thousand pikemen while twenty thousand riflemen were in front. Behind them marched a hundred thousand spearmen and behind them came the swordsmen and archers._

 _The horsemen had already been sent. Licking his lips, Jai tried his hardest without succeeding to not look at the near ten thousand men and their mounts that lay scattered, broken and dead before the tribesmen. They horse had been sent first, to break the Warhawk's first ranks, but they had been tricked._

 _A trench of covered spiked poles, running north to south and lasting several leagues in both directions, had all but eliminated the horse; the remainder were killed by well shot arrows. The horse had failed, now time for the foot._

 _They marched, waiting for another trap to spring. None did, not yet. Jai could see the Warhawk, black hair hanging to his mid back, riding in front of his men. A speech to rouse the troops, perhaps, he thought. No matter, battle would begin soon, though the lack of many visible war horses amongst the tribesmen was worrying, as there were supposedly almost as many horses as plainsmen. Jai only hoped he would live through this and see his sweet Mlia and young Huyl again._

 _As the Army of the Palatine continued to approach the plainsmen tribes a sound like a mountain breaking in half came overhead. Looking upwards, Jai saw what looked like meteors plummeting from the heavens. Scores fell onto the field, some killing soldiers, others tribesmen. Thousands died in minutes, but that was not the worst of it._

 _The meteor that fell near him was large, large enough for a hundred horses. A piece of the meteor fell to the ground and a creature with blackish green skin and red, beady eyes stepped out, twice as tall as most men._

 _The creature lifted a large axe and bellowed a loud "WAAAGH!" It charged towards the pikemen as more creatures like it emerged from the meteor. Jai realised as terror weakened his knees that they were charging towards him._

The battle between Jaghatai and the Palatine had only just begun when one of Mankind's most wretched enemies began to invade: the Orks. A small collection of haphazard Ork ships had arrived over Chogorian orbit. The ships had travelled far in the warp, arriving battle damaged and falling apart as they initiated fiery crash landings. From the holds of their ships came forth tens of thousands of Orks. Miniscule by galactic standards as it may be, it was still undoubtedly overwhelming to a planet that had only just begun to include black powder into its limited weapon arsenal. The opening days of the invasion were devastating, the Army of the Palatine almost completely destroyed, alongside nearly half the plainsmen. The only reason so many survived was due to Jaghatai's resourcefulness and rallying of the two armies. This act allowed Chogoris to survive those first few weeks.

 _Jaghatai scowled as the storm raged above. Unlike the one that heralded his emergence from the life-pod, this one was not a sign of providence. This was a result of the green beasts – Orks… something in his mind named these creatures Orks – arrival. The sky was filled with their metal ships and rocks, so much so that the sky wept as Chogoris was invaded._

 _As far as the eye could see, people rode and walked westward, towards perceived safety. Intermixed were women and children, families rescued or retrieved before they would have been slaughtered. They were battered, weary, and bloodied, but they marched with pride. At least his people did, he thought wryly._

 _The Palatine rode near the front of a separate, imperial column, putting on airs that he was a competent leader and still a factor in this war. Jaghatai scowl deepened as the poor excuse of an emperor rode by. The man looked at Jaghatai as he rode by, flinching at his gaze, the look of distaste and fear evident._

 _"You should have killed him."_

 _Jaghatai's scowl disappeared and his face softened somewhat. Turning his large warhorse, he faced the Khan of Kurayed Tribe._

 _"Father."_

 _Gansu Khan nodded to his foster son. His warhorse was smaller when compared to the Warhawk's, but still mighty enough to bear the Khan. The two watched as the Palatine's army passed and tribesmen replaced them. The arrival of the Orks had caused bitter enemies to unite, for the survival of both of their peoples. While the beasts fell, the soldiers of the steppes and warriors of the plains united. Jaghatai did not care for it, but he needed the manpower. He said as much to the Khan._

 _"Still, son, you should have killed him. You cannot trust emperors, they will turn on you."_

 _"Perhaps not, but we need him and his empire. The resources at his disposal will allow us to defeat this menace."_

 _Gansu grunted. "As you say, son." The Khan looked to where they were heading. "Come, Khum Karta awaits."_

The combined army withdrew deeper into the Empty Quarter, avoiding the worst of the Ork landings. Though the primarch would not face the enemy in open battle, knowing it would spell defeat for Chogoris, it did not mean the Orks had an easy conquest as their filth spread further. Large swathes of the plains were cleared by the Kurayed-led forces, with the Orks' bodies burned and their technology studied and turned against them. Ork casualties rose and human casualties lowered as the alien's weaknesses were discovered and exploited.

In the Khum Karta Mountains, Jaghatai and his forces readied themselves for the massive Ork horde coming for them. Preparations were made, messages sent and plans were drawn as the majority of the Orks on the planet made their way to where the Warhawk and his warriors were, eager to join in the battle that was to come. As the green beasts rushed towards the foreboding mountains, they were forced into narrow ravines where the Chogorians ambushed and thinned the vast alien army, whittling down their numbers, using the terrain and superior tactics to bleed the enemy. Both plainsmen and imperial fought side by side against the Orks, with many abandoning their oaths to the Palatine to swear new ones to Jaghatai.

During one of the many skirmishes that occurred between human and beast in the mountainous terrain, Jaghatai killed a minor warband's chieftain, causing the Orks that it led to fight among themselves. The primarch noticed this and over the ensuing days a dozen more chieftains were killed, causing a dozen more war parties to fall to their more primal instinct of establishing dominance over fellow Orks. Having obtained such crucial information, Jaghatai planned an attack deep into the Ork army to kill the Warboss, therefore causing the Orks to fight amongst themselves to determine a new warlord.

During the attack, Jaghatai goaded the Warboss into battle, and then ambushed him along with the best warriors of the _ordu_. While the battle raged around them, the primarch met the Ork commander in battle. After an intense confrontation, Jaghatai slew the giant greenskin, leading to the xenos fragmenting into dozens of small warbands, all of which proclaimed their chieftain as the new Warboss leading to every tribe fighting the others to raise their chieftain as leader. As they did so, the Warhawk and his warriors withdrew to the Kurayed fortress deep in the mountains. There, Jaghatai discovered grave news: Gansu Khan was dead, killed by the Palatine and his bodyguards.

 _Pulling his bloodied sword from the corpse before him, Jaghatai heaved the dead guardsman to the side, the body hitting the stone wall of Quan Zhou and sliding down. Jaghatai moved forward, barely pausing, cutting down those that defied him. Behind him he could hear his bodyguards killing what few other Palatine Elites remained._

 _Before him stood the emperor of the high steppes, Khagan of the Civilised Lands, Palatine of Chogoris, standing as if he would not die, as if he could not._

 _"Why?" Jaghatai demanded, his voice an edged blade cutting through the air._

 _The Palatine's knees gave way from terror, but his voice remained strong. "You took everything from me. Everything! If you had died out there, all would have been set right, but you lived, worse, you won. If I returned to the steppes, I would be nothing but a figurehead, at most, while you would be the saviour, the hero! I would be powerless, insignificant."_

 _Jaghatai paused, his clenched fists shaking in rage. Glancing at his foster father's corpse that lay nearby, the Khan's throat slit, the Warhawk renewed his stride to the murderer. "This is why you betrayed my trust? This is why you kill from the shadows, a coward, who cares naught but for his own power."_

 _Raising his sword to kill, he spoke again. "My father was right, you cannot trust emperors."_

 _The blade fell._

With the Ork invasion broken, their warbands scattered and killing each other, Jaghatai, now Khan of Kurayed, rode through the plains accompanied by warriors of the plains and steppes, defeating what few Orks they came across. As the Khan moved eastward he gathered survivors and those that had been enslaved, uniting them into a single horde that moved towards the high steppes. After months of travel this immense army invaded the dead Khagan's empire. Few resisted, and those only blind loyalists to the deceased monarch's heir. As the imperial capital was razed to the ground, Jaghatai became the new Khagan of Chogoris, uniting the plains and the high steppes into a single global-spanning empire.

While Jaghatai became Khagan, the Orks were not lax. Several warbands of the greenskins were moving toward the high steppes, killing, enslaving and plundering all before them. The primarch and his army met each and every warband, destroying one, and then quickly riding to the next to make battle. Cleansing the planet would take time, but eventually after little more than ten years of war, the Orks were all but defeated, only a fraction of their numbered remained, scattered across the world and forever hunted by warriors of the _ordu_.

The world's capital was moved from the high steppes to Kurayed's Quan Zhou fortress in the Khum Karta Mountains. From there Jaghatai ruled directly, for a time. It quickly became apparent to the new world ruler that he was not content to sign documents, draft laws, or decide on taxes for the remainder of his unknown lifespan. Delegating the necessary administrative duties to mortal men, the Khagan left Khum Karta to journey across all of Chogoris, speaking to his people and putting down rebellions and the occasional outbreak of greenskins.

For years the Khagan wandered his world, ever accompanied by guards and a personal retinue, but the gene-forged demigod was fast becoming bored. To satisfy this longing for battle and the pleasure of triumph, the primarch threw more elaborate feasts, took more and more concubines, and went on great hunts. But these too, in time, came to bore him. As the Great Khan neared despair, hope was restored when the sky started to weep once more as hundreds of warships settled into low orbit, depositing thousands of dropships. Rather than an invader, however, these were the forces of the Imperium of Man, led personally by the Emperor who detected a son of His in the star system.

The meeting between the Khan and the Emperor is recorded in the tale _Song of the Blade_ , detailing the Fifth Son being brought into the Imperial fold, embracing his father, and swearing to follow Him into the stars to fight for Mankind against all that would oppose its destiny. The truth, as discovered by agents of the Inquisition in the years following the Scouring, was much different than the story told to the Imperial masses in those more glorious years. The information was discovered in the ruins of the Quan Zhou Fortress-Monastery, written in the hand of the Fifth Primarch on several scrolls, inscribed in Khorchin.

The first meeting between the Master of Mankind and His Son did not go as hoped. When the Emperor arrived, Jaghatai railed against joining the Imperium, seeing it as an empire akin to the deceased Palatine's. The Emperor on the other hand was disappointed that the Fifth Son was shirking responsibilities of governance, allowing personal desires to override duty. The two were secluded in the Khan's chambers to talk, while those few that saw the argument were sworn to silence by members of the Legio Custodes. It is unknown what passed between father and son, but when the two emerged after hours of discussion, Jaghatai had declared for the Emperor and was ready to take the mantle of Legion command.

Shortly after swearing allegiance to the Emperor, the Warhawk was introduced to his sons. Impressed by their record, and seeing strength in them similar to the Chogorian people, the Khagan took command of his Legion, renaming them the White Scars in honour of those who were once Kurayed's greatest enemy and then who became their greatest ally. Their symbol would be a thunderbolt worked in gold colouring. The symbol was akin to the Emperor's old thunderbolt sigil that He used during the Unification Wars on Terra, and some thought Jaghatai choosing it showed he was a loyal and dutiful son.

 **The Great Crusade-**

As the numbers of the Fifth Legion were not large when compared to the Ultramarines, the Luna Wolves or the First Legion, Jaghatai came to the conclusion he could not fight large battles of direct confrontation with the many enemies facing the Imperium. Instead, the V was to adopt tactics learned and tempered into the primarch during his unification of the tribes, the war with the high steppes, and finally the Ork invasion. Lightning fast attacks, surgically precise strikes, cutting off supply lines, eliminating enemy commanders and more were instilled into the White Scars. As the Legion modified its tactics to suit their primarch's wishes, many young male children on Chogoris were selected to be inducted into the Astartes ranks. Though this would greatly enlarge the V, it was not enough for the White Scars to draw solely on their new homeworld as many millions had died during the invasion, forcing the White Scars to still draw upon other worlds, primarily Terra, for almost the Great Crusade's entirety. This would have the effect of the Fifth Legion fielding a sizable minority of non-Chogorian Astartes when the Heresy began.

With the Fifth Legion trained in their Khagan's way of war and fully adopting the culture of their homeworld, Jaghatai ordered his sons to re-join the Great Crusade. Within a handful of years the White Scars displayed their prowess in war, defeating all that they encountered on a hundred battlefields. Though the ivory, red, and gold armoured Space Marines brought many worlds into compliance in those years, the V was more suited, and willing, to fight xenos. Drawing upon the well of anger and distaste their primarch felt for aliens the White Scars leaped at every chance given to side-line compliance actions and take on campaigns of extermination against various alien breeds, particularly Orks. So effective were they in these missions that the Emperor all but allowed them to leave campaigns of compliance to other Legions more suited to it, giving them authorisation to combat xenos wherever they may be.

For most of the Great Crusade the White Scars ventured far outside Imperial space, toppling alien empires, allowing for Expeditionary Fleets following in their wake to have an easy time establishing Imperial hegemony. Despite hundreds of victories earned across the galaxy, the Fifth Legion received little in the way of recognition and noticeable lack of praise was given to them across the Imperium. To many Imperial citizens, White Scars were barbaric in appearance, similar to their Space Wolf cousins, yet lacking the popularity that Leman Russ enjoyed. While Russ fought beside many of his brothers and stood side-by-side the Emperor on multiple campaigns, the Warhawk was eliminating enemies in unknown reaches of space before they could threaten his father's realm, destroying empires whose names are lost to history, if ever they were learned. Their deeds unnoticed, their accolades few and far between, their appearance and traditions likened to those they deemed uncultured and uncouth, the White Scars slowly became embittered as the decades progressed. The V truly became a Legion that was 'out of sight, out of mind.'

Though many White Scars bore disagreement with what they saw as the Emperor's banishment of their primarch from His Domain, the Fifth Legion could not deny the vast riches obtained in their wars of conquest. Many a White Scar of Chogorian birth kept a chest filled with gems, trinkets and other jewels, far more than simple totems of past campaigns as was the norm in other Legions. Eventually even non-Chogorian Scars were uncomfortable with how much their brethren focused on wealth and pride, rather than honour and satisfaction of duty done.

During the Great Crusade, Jaghatai was friendly with several of his brothers, notably Horus and Magnus. With Magnus, Jaghatai helped establish the Librarius in several Legions, giving the Legiones Astartes a strong psyker formation. With Horus, he advised the First Found on occasion and helped him in several military operations, notably the Ullanor Crusade.

During said crusade, the White Scars did not participate in the opening offensive alongside the Ultramarines and World Eaters, nor did they assist in the invasion of Ullanor Prime with the Luna Wolves, Blood Angels, Imperial Fists and the Emperor. Instead of such glory, the Warhawk initiated a diversion deep in the Ullanor Sector, drawing away millions of Orks from their capital, allowing for his brothers and father to deliver the killing blow to Warboss Urlakk Urg. While his brothers reaped the glory and honour, the Khan's contributions to the victory were largely ignored or minimised.

At the following Triumph, Horus Lupercal was named Warmaster, publicly raised above his brothers. To many such as Dorn, Perturabo, Fulgrim and Sanguinius this was applauded, but to some such as Angron, the Lion and Jaghatai this was cause for concern. Angron and the Lion thought they rather than Horus should have been elevated to this prestigious new rank, while Jaghatai felt the Emperor was abandoning the Great Crusade and that leaving a primarch to command other sons of the Emperor was bound to cause unnecessary strife.

When Jaghatai went to Horus to confide his worries, the Warmaster heatedly rebuked the Khan for his outspoken criticisms of their father and especially the Khan's dislike of Horus' new status. The two fell into an argument that lasted for hours. Horus argued with Jaghatai that he needed to take a more active role in governance and shaping the Imperium while Jaghatai bluntly stated he would not tame his nor his sons' desire for autonomy and thrill of war just to become another bureaucrat chained to administration. The meeting only ended when the Warmaster was forced to order his brother to chase down several Ork remnants that had survived Ullanor and were already threatening other star systems.

With the Triumph ended, and Horus taking on new responsibilities, Jaghatai led the Fifth Legion into hunting down greenskin warbands that had escaped Ullanor, destroying them one by one for several years until only one remained, by far the largest and most organised, centred in a backwater system named Chondax.

What was projected to be a three month campaign quickly bogged down into a brutal slog. The Space Marines swiftly captured several moons over the system's gas giants, but on Chondax itself, a volcanic world covered in ash and rivers of molten lava, the war devolved into one of attrition. No matter how many of the greenskins were killed, more simply took their place.

As months became years the Chondax Campaign drudged onwards. Legionnaire casualties rose and supplies steadily fell, forcing the V Legion to plunder from their own dead and butchered Orks for ammunition, armour and more. The White Scars had always faced supply difficulties as their isolationist mind-set and deep forays into unknown space had caused many a headache for Imperial resupply fleets. Such was the near-impossibility to coordinate with the Astartes Legion that the Departmento Munitorum was forced to dispatch a high-ranking officer to act as liaison between the Space Marines and the Imperial organisation. What was hoped to create a better dialogue instead caused the legionnaires to become more and more dissatisfied with what they termed "outside interference."

As the war on Chondax continued, and Imperial bureaucracy involved itself more and more, the White Scars became more cynical and disillusioned. Stuck in a mire of attrition warfare, Jaghatai was unable to attend the Council of Nikaea. The humiliation Magnus and the Thousand Sons suffered there, while Librarians were allowed to continue, struck Jaghatai as hypocritical and biased on the Emperor's part. Opinion of the Edict's Librarian Compromise soured; not in refutation of the Edict itself as it seemed an evolution of the order Jaghatai helped found many years earlier, but the way it was implemented whilst at the same time the XV was publically criticised at the highest levels of authority. Following these events, morale began to plummet; the Khans and Noyan-Khans led their brothers into battle for desire and spoils rather than duty and pursuit of victory while Jaghatai enclosed himself in his personal chambers. It is unknown what occurred while the Great Khan was isolated deep within his flagship: the Swordstorm, but shouting and vehement rages were audible to all who passed by the primarch's chambers though none other beside the Fifth Son was inside.

It was during this time that Erebus of the Word Bearers arrived, bearing a gift from Fulgrim and Lorgar. This would be the catalyst that would set the White Scars down the path of damnation.

 _Erebus sat in the centre of an Octed, praying. Prostrating himself, holy words coming from cracked lips, blood fell freely on the Eight-Pointed Star. After a moment, he rose from that position, moving towards the cell's single view port. From here, the Word Bearer High Chaplain could see the ash-covered world of Chondax, slowly rotating on its axis. The Fifth Legion fleet was far enough away to avoid the planet's gravitational pull, as well as any potential attack from the hundreds of thousands of Orks still fighting._

 _A flight of nine Stormbirds flew by, escorted by Fire Raptor gunships and void-fighters. Yet another Astartes foray onto Chondax, for spoils and the exhilaration of war and speed. Erebus' face took on a smirk. Things were coming along quite nicely. The White Scars were becoming turned, slowly but surely._

 _Licking bloodied and cracked lips, already beginning to heal, he thought of his mission here. Jaghatai was to be swayed to the rebellion and directed to the path of the Dark Prince. Even now Fulgrim, Lorgar, Angron and Typhon would be revealing their loyalties on Bellanor, casting off the Golden Throne's shackles. Erebus wished he was there, but his… failure with Horus still lingered in the Urizen's mind._

 _When Erebus had left the 63rd Expedition Fleet, he had left it with the mission a near-total failure. Knowing to return to his primarch with the Warmaster still loyal to the Emperor would have meant death; he had stolen the key to the Vaults of Moravec from the Warmaster's private quarters while he was being interred into a stasis pod. Damn that Garviel Loken! That key, and the primarch's wisdom, had spared his life. To attain redemption the Aurelian ordered him to present the Chogorian primarch with the Laer blade, allowing Slaanesh's claws to sink deeper into the Great Khan then they already were, and convince him it was more beneficial to the Fifth Legion and their beliefs for them to throw their support behind Fulgrim._

 _He stared out over the fleet, noting the enlarged engines on the warships. Apparently the rumour of the White Scars fleet having their ships' speed enhanced was true. Their love of speed, both in the void and on the ground was apparent, nearly addictive it seemed. Several moments passed before he donned on his armour, the new crimson coloured livery that had only recently replaced the original grey seemed to drink in the glow-globe's light._

 _A chime sounded, ringing like music. Moving towards the door, Erebus pressed the 'open' rune. A squad of the Khagan's bodyguard, the Keshig, stood outside, armed and ready. An honour guard… or an execution detail? Stepping into the corridor, the Chaplain looked at the sergeant._

 _"We are to escort you to the primarch's audience chamber, High Chaplain."_

 _The tone was cordial, respect clear in the legionnaire's stance… but their weapons were drawn and could cut him down at any moment, for any reason._

 _"Lead the way, Darga Yeshma."_

 _The guards fell in around him, escorting him to the Khagan. Within moments he stood in the chamber with the Great Khan, who lounged on a gilded throne, appearing to be relaxed. Bejewelled serfs clothed in silk offered wine, which he accepted. Pleasantries were exchanged, several Noyan-Khans and Khans stood in attendance. Erebus noted those that were absent, notably Jemulan Noyan-Khan, Torghun Khan, and Stormseer Targutai Yesugei_

 _A half-hour progressed before the Khagan clapped his hands together twice, booming through the chamber._

 _"Erebus of the Word Bearers Legion, come forth." He did so, hearing the shuffling of boots behind him as they formed loose ranks, watching him, awaiting declaration. The Colchisian stood, waiting, wishing he had weapons but when faced with a primarch, it would have been less than useless. He bowed to Jaghatai and rose after a moment's pause. Straightening, he asked the question that would see him live or die within the next few minutes._

 _"Have you decided, my lord?"_

 _"Ah, yes. Remain faithful to a distant Emperor of a corrupt Imperium, or join an arrogant Fulgrim and several of my brothers in rebellion." Jaghatai retrieved the Laer sword from its scabbard, admiring its alien construction. The air was tense, the others awaiting their lord father. Jaghatai spoke._

 _"The Imperium is corrupt; Fulgrim may or may not be better as the Second Emperor. But we will be free to do as we please, to go where we want, fight whom we want, and reap the riches of the stars. No longer will we be judged or forgotten. We are the White Scars, our name will echo across the galaxy for eternity."_

 _The Great Khan pointed the alien sword toward Erebus._

 _"I will join you."_

Jaghatai agreed to join Fulgrim's rebellion, knowing that the current Imperium would never allow them to be who they truly were, always suppressing their desires. With their loyalties now to the Phoenician, who at the time of their turning was initiating the Dropsite Massacre, the Khagan knew he must purge the Fifth Legion before they ventured forth into the burgeoning civil war. Calling forth the entire _ordu_ , Jaghatai said to all his assembled sons that the time to eliminate the Ork threat on Chondax had finally come about.

As the White Scars readied to assault the Orks final bastion, orders came through from the primarch. Rather than deploying brotherhoods and hordes in their entirety, most of the Space Marines selected were instead squads and individual legionnaires from across the _ordu_. These Astartes were informed that they were chosen for the honour of the first wave. Once a landing had been secured, the rest of the White Scars were to deploy. The truth was far more terrible.

Thousands of White Scars, led by Jemulan Noyan-Khan of the Horde of the Earth, landed on Chondax and after hours of combat established a sufficient landing zone for the remainder of their brethren. Instead of reinforcement, death arrived. Warheads tipped with the Life-Eater Virus were fired down to onto the surface, followed by incendiary missiles, burning Chondax to a cinder. The primarch, satisfied what few of his Throne-loyal sons that survived were no longer a threat, joined the Great Heresy.

 **Heresy-**

As the War Commander marched methodically towards Terra, the Fifth Legion scoured through the Imperium, sabotaging Imperial supply lines, ransacking star systems rich in wealth and resources, as well as causing the Imperium to bleed from a thousand wounds, ensuring chaos reigned across significant portions of loyalist space. Where the Warhawk ventured, many surrendered, swearing oaths to the Great Khan and the War Commander. Those that resisted were often butchered, with the survivors either tortured for entertainment or enslaved.

As the Fulgrimian Heresy continued, Jaghatai became haunted by nightmares far worse than ever before. Nightmares of his betrayal to the Emperor, of murdering his own sons and the hundreds of genocides and crimes committed since the Khagan flocked to the Phoenician's banner. While doubt and internal conflict stormed within, the sword of the Laer whispered to him, promising much and hinting more. For a year and a day Jaghatai locked himself in his private quarters, communicating only with his inner circle.

With the Great Khan secluded, the White Scars debauchery and sadism rose to new heights. Entire worlds were murdered for simple pleasure, the legionnaires of Chogoris exhilarating in butchery whilst they rode their Land Speeders and Attack Bikes in ever faster speeds. Impulse overrode discipline, desire over duty, and uncountable billions of innocents suffered as a result.

As the primarch's self-induced isolation came to an end, the Khagan emerged from his chambers haggard looking but brimming with knowledge of what to do and where to go.

 _The world was dead, storms wisped around it, its lands glassed and people murdered, butchered at the hands of barbarians. Jaghatai walked among the ruins of Tizca, once called the City of Light. Now, he thought as he looked over the rubble, it was the City of the Dead._

 _Striding through blasted buildings, and broken glass and rock strewn plazas, the White Scars Primarch and a squad of Keshig searched. What they were searching for, the Khagan was not sure, but he felt a… calling to come to Prospero. Meditating in solitude, Jaghatai had heard Magnus beckoning him here._

 _After hours of searching they discovered much, but little was of value as nothing was unscathed. Bones crunched beneath boots as the legionnaires progressed. Ruined suits of armour, bolt shells, bolters, half-burned banners, upturned husks of vehicles, and statues in various stages of destruction._

 _The wind picked up speed, whipping his hair. "Brother…" it whispered._

 _Turning to follow the wind, he walked through what had been Old Tizca, heading deeper into the city, away from the irradiated ocean. Hours more passed, they had to choose alternate paths heading into the city's centre as some roads no longer existed. On the way they saw incorporeal beings, psychic shades of Prospero's deceased citizens and defenders. They hovered nearby, vengeful ghosts, their stances hostile but they did not attack, nor make any threatening moves._

 _"My Khagan, we must relocate. We are vulnerable here," voxed the Keshig sergeant._

 _"Be at peace, Yeshma, my brother will not harm me, nor will these ghosts."_

 _Not long after, the primarch and legionnaires found themselves in Tizca's central plaza, the Pyramid of Photep stood haphazardly across from them._

 _"Brother… come… we have much… to discuss." A flicker near the pyramid's broken gates showed a giant figure in armour that flickered from crimson to blue and gold. Magnus._

 _Jaghatai went to meet with his brother's warp echo._

On Prospero, Jaghatai learned much from conferring with his brother Magnus. Though the real Magnus was far away, fighting beside the War Commander, the Cyclops was using a discarded portion of his psychic might to communicate with the Fifth Primarch. During their conversation, the Crimson King told Jaghatai of what power could be attained in the Great Storm, what majesties awaited those strong-willed enough to seek it. This appealed to the Great Khan, who wanted these powers to ensure he would not be subservient to Fulgrim when he ascended to the Throne of Terra as he was to the Emperor, and these powers would make him close to the Third Primarch's equal.

Before Jaghatai could depart from Prospero, the White Scars came under attack from a taskforce made up of the Death Guard and Imperial Army. While the combined XIV and Army fleet engaged the Fifth Legion's ships, Primarch Mortarion led an attack to kill his brother. The two primarchs fought a close battle, wounding each other, but before Mortarion or Jaghatai could deliver a killing blow, more White Scar warships arrived in-system, forcing the Death Guard to retreat before they became encircled between the two traitor forces.

After the Second Battle of Prospero, Jaghatai told his gene-line that they would never be truly free to pursue their desires, never truly able to experience freedom attained by thrilling speed and glorious combat, unless they ventured into Hell itself to receive blessings from their dark patron. Gathering the _ordu_ 's full might, Jaghatai led the White Scars deep into what would be known as the Eye of Terror, hounded by Perturabo for much of the way but slipping past the Iron King's clutches before they could close shut.

Deep in the Eye of Terror, on an Eldar Crone World known only as the World of Immortal Sorrows the Traitor Primarch confronted his misgivings and became blessed by the Youngest God, gifted with ascension.

 _The ruins were old. Very old. The world was long dead, a home of the Eldar when their kind ruled the galaxy without question. The cities the White Scars scouted were crystalline, seemingly fragile but hard as adamantium._

 _Here and there bones could be found, but not enough to account for the world's projected population. The sky was clear, allowing full view of the Great Storm clashing and twisting overhead. Hundreds of Legion warships were in orbit, waiting, watching; the anticipation building._

 _Jaghatai Khan, the Warhawk, Khagan of Chogoris, Great Khan of the Fifth Legion, looked for an entrance into the sub-levels of what was once a theatre. His Keshig were near him, as always, ever wary and ready to sacrifice themselves for their father. Behind them came several hundreds of Noyan-Khans, Khans, favoured sons and others chosen by their father. They were to bear witness._

 _"_ To your ascension," _whispered the sword's voice._

 _The entrance was found, welded shut._

 _"Open it," he ordered, and two Keshig complied with several melta-charges. From there they descended into the earth. Within moments soft music caught their ears. It was beautiful and sorrow-filled, both melding together at once. Clinking glass, dripping water, soft wind, these were the sounds that emanated from the walls but no speakers were visible._

 _For hours they ventured further into the dead world. After what seemed hours, the primarch and legionnaires emerged into a large cavern, with a throne in the centre. It was made of polished marble with colourful designs. The Mark of Slaanesh was on the throne's back, glowing with baleful warp energy._

 _The sword whispered to him, only he could hear it, and instructed him on what to do._

 _"Bring the slaves from the_ Swordstorm _'s cargo holds. Arrange them around the throne. Give them the drug cocktail they crave, but do not overdose. I need them brimming with ecstasy, but alive."_

 _His sons followed his orders and many hours later the cavern was filled with millions of slaves, each more lost in a drug-craze than the last. The Stormseers arranged themselves just so, spread out through the masses, their staff of office held upright. The other White Scars encircled the slaves and Stormseers, making sure all were where they should be._

 _"_ Sit," _whispered the voice. Jaghatai sat in the throne and felt it mould to his stature. Nodding to his warp-gifted sons, the Stormseers began to chant, almost a hymn. The mass of base humanity began to sing, adding to the hymn. Their throats soon became raw and bloody but their singing did not cease. Special oils and perfumes were released, bodies met others in sexual intercourse, and all the while the Stormseers directed their powers to enhancing all senses as high as possible. Screams of pain and pleasure resonated in the cavern, shaking it with its might._

"Begin," _the voice whimpered._ "Now, do it now!"

 _Jaghatai opened his mind and guided the orchestra of sensation. A tear opened where he had concentrated, a gateway into the true warp. In the distance was a palace adorned in hues of every colour, favouring various pinks, purples and yellows, though all and more were represented, some colours Jaghatai had never seen before and they pleased his mind, tantalising him with their beauty. Jagged and curved spires dotted the landscape, the air heavy with exotic smells, and the ground seemingly heaving up and down as if breathing._

 _Approaching the gateway was a being of uncontested beauty, long raven black hair, curved horns rising from the head, jewels and totems hanging from them. Full breasts resided on the creature though it could not truly be called female, nor male, but a combination of the two, a union of sensation and unrivalled beauty. The being stepped through the portal into the half-mortal realm on World of Immortal Sorrows, gliding gracefully towards Jaghatai, almost serpentine-like in its movement. The mortals bowed, wept and panted heavily with the presence of such a wondrous creature before them. Blood began to pour from their mouths, nose, ears and eyes; such were their senses being overloaded._

 _The Greater Daemon raised its clawed hands, smiling as it turned to look at those that debased themselves before it. Turning to Jaghatai, it bowed deeply, respectfully._

 _"Jaghatai Khan, Chosen of the Dark Prince, I come as representative of the Youngest God, Prince of Pleasure and Pain, Mistress of Debauchery, Slaanesh the Beloved. I am Keeper of Secrets Puri'ya'kasakui."_

 _"What do you bring for me,_ yaksha _?"_

 _The daemon's smile broadened, revealed many fangs. "I come bearing gifts from Slaanesh, ones that will make you powerful beyond what you already are. Your senses will heighten, your prowess strengthened and your innate powers bloomed to fruition." It extended a clawed hand, bedecked in jewels and intricate tattoos. "Come with me," it whispered seductively. "Come experience true bliss." The hundreds of thousands of humans cried and moaned as their bodies began to melt, fusing with others, forming new figures as their souls began to be sucked into the gateway. Streams of souls flew by the daemon like water around a rock in a river._

"Go with it, go, go, go!" _the sword whispered urgently._

 _Rising from the throne, Jaghatai joined the daemon and together they entered the personal domain of a god._

It is unknown exactly what occurred on that cursed planet, but when the White Scars left the Crone World, they did so in the total worship of Slaanesh with their gene-father raised to the rank of Daemon Primarch. Now openly dedicated to a Chaos God, excess, debauchery, unspeakable horrors and more became ever more the norm for the once proud and noble Astartes. When the legionnaires of Chogoris re-emerged from the Eye of Terror months after entering they re-joined the Heresy, their crimes more heinous than before.

As civil war wracked the galaxy, the White Scars rarely fought beside their rebel allies, preferring to wage war independently, basking in personal glory and lack of interference from others. On occasion, however, the Fifth Legion was called to fight alongside their fellow Astartes, most notably Jaghatai assisting Fulgrim in the conquest of Molech during the war's fifth year.

In the sixth year of Fulgrim's Heresy, as the Traitor Legions neared Terra, the White Scars began to engage the Blood Angels. Bloodied, running low on supplies with a majority of their fleet in some form of damage or disrepair, the Angels of Baal were unable to decisively defeat the White Scars in open battle for months. Rather, the Fifth Legion ambushed, isolating small squadrons and causing the IX to slowly bleed itself dry as they sought sanctuary.

But the White Scars were becoming impatient, ever craving more riches and personal exaltation. The legionnaires were blinded by depravity, their primarch even more so. In a climactic battle between the two Legions the Blood Angels came out as a clear victor after drawing the White Scars into a trap. Thousands of the traitor legionnaires died, forcing Jaghatai to withdraw to prevent his Legion's crippling.

Even as the White Scars retreated, plans to seek retribution began. The chance for such vengeance came not much later, as traitor spies reported the Blood Angels location in the Venyr System where they were repairing their ships. Not only was the IX resent, seemingly vulnerable, but so too were the First Legion led by Lion El'Jonson, whose situation was similar to their Baalite cousins. After many nights of sacrifices and communion with Slaanesh, the Great Khan ordered a swift lightning fast attack to cripple both fleets, thereby preventing them from joining the loyalists already on Terra.

The attack was executed flawlessly. The Fifth Legion's warfleet emerged from the warp dangerously close to Venyr Prime. The sons of the Khagan were veterans of planetary combat, but were masters of void warfare. The traitor assault tore through both loyalist fleets, crippling or destroying nearly half in a single run. Casualties for the White Scars were heavy, but paled in comparison to what they inflicted on the two Angel Legions, forcing Sanguinius and El'Jonson to remain in the Venyr System for repairs as to leave in their current state was inviting potential catastrophe.

With two Loyal Legions tied down, Jaghatai heeded the War Commander's call for the final drive towards Mankind's birthworld. Heavy fighting followed during these closing months; the White Scars were always at the front leading the charge or striking at Imperial weak points. Such was the excessive cruelty and heinous acts of the Fifth Legion during this time that many worlds in the Segmentum Solar fell to the traitor war machine quickly, some without firing a shot. Other worlds resisted fiercely, leading to their obliteration.

Most devastating to Imperial morale was the destruction of Cthonia. Only days away from Terra, Fulgrim ordered that the Warmaster's homeworld was to be murdered. Descending onto the smog-filled hive world the Sons of Fulgrim, Word Bearers and White Scars spent the next few weeks conquering the world, defeating all Imperial resistance. Once victory had been secured, the traitor legionnaires then herded the survivors into mass sacrificial rituals, powering their daemon engines and appeasing the Ruinous Powers.

When the Sol System's invasion began the White Scars were at the forefront of the Eight Legions, securing void-space over Terra after the defending loyalist warships were forced into the star system's outer halo. Jaghatai led an assault that captured the Eternity Wall Spaceport, allowing the other Legions to land en masse. After the spaceport's capture, White Scar contribution to the Siege was minimal. Instead of helping to break through the Palace's defences, the Warhawk's progeny preyed upon the civilian population, killing millions and enslaving countless more. Despite the sons of Jaghatai slaughtering many Imperial Army regiments and securing vast quantities of war material and riches, their lack of participation in the Siege and ignoring all commands issued by the War Commander vexed Fulgrim to no end.

Predation over the Terrans continued largely unopposed until the arrival of the Raven Guard after the Ultimate Gate fell. The Raven's sons fought the Khan's throughout the globe, defending civilians and rallying the surviving Army divisions to resist the traitors. Across Terra hundreds of battles and skirmishes were fought between the Raven Guard and the White Scars, with no clear victor overall. The Raven Guard's guerrilla warfare plagued traitor supply efforts, while the White Scars lightning attacks made the XIX cautious in their approach and disposition.

On the ninety-fifth day of the Siege Fulgrim's attempt to kill the Emperor failed and the War Commander perished, following his death so too did the rebellion. The Third Legion was the first to flee from Terra, demoralised and broken after their primarch's death. Right on their heels were the White Scars. With news of Fulgrim's demise spreading like wildfire, Jaghatai ordered the retreat. The Siege of Terra was over, the Great Heresy lost.

 **Scattered Wind-**

As the Great Scouring began a year after Terra's Siege, the V did not join the Syndicate Chaotica. Rather than risk death defending worlds of little value to them, the White Scars preferred pillaging vast swathes of undefended Imperial territory, their disdain for static defence developing due to its lack of freedom of movement, thus denying them of significant sensory enrichment. It was rare for Imperial squadrons to corner a raiding fleet of Jaghatai's, as the ships were able to outmanoeuvre and outrun many of their pursuers.

As the Imperium slowly stabilised and reasserted its authority over rebellious worlds, attention turned from reclamation to retribution. The Third Legion's homeworld was the first to be attacked by those carrying the Aquila. Following Chemos' destruction, the Warmaster moved to eliminate the threat of Chogoris. Lacking the vast domains many Legions held, the White Scars used their homeworld as their only significant base of operations. Realising this, and wanting to seek revenge on the Khan for his treachery and genocide of Cthonia, Horus Lupercal led a vast armada made up of elements from the Imperial Fists, Death Guard and his own Sons of Horus.

Caught by surprise, and lacking much of their armada as they were out on raids, the Fifth Legion attempted to mount a defence but outnumbered and outgunned, the end result was assured. After breaking through the orbital defences, tens of thousands of loyalist Space Marines landed on Chogoris. What they found disgusted them. The landscape had been changed with Slaanesh's touch, so too were the fauna and flora. Everything existed to bring joy and agony, and enhance sensation to euphoric levels. Many Astartes ruled their own villages, attended to by mortals, their every whim serviced with blind glee.

Most of the planet was conquered in days with relative ease, the traitors focusing their efforts in the mountains of Khum Karta. The Khagan hoped to hold off the Imperials long enough for his fleets to return and balance out the military disparity. This hope would be dashed away as the Warmaster ordered the Imperial Fists to initiate a siege of the traitors' fortress-monastery, drawing many White Scars away from the inner precincts of Jaghatai's palace.

With air and void superiority secured, Horus and Mortarion led a speartip drop-pod assault. The Warmaster and Death Lord fought their way to Jaghatai's throne room. What they found within was not the brother they once knew, but a daemon within Emperor-forged and Slaanesh-blessed flesh. The two loyal primarchs fought their damned brother as more and more Sons of Horus and Death Guard landed in the heart of Quan Zhou.

Despite being a Daemon Primarch, Jaghatai was outmatched facing Mortarion's endurance and Horus' fury. Both primarchs suffered wounds, but their corrupted sibling was killed in the material plane, his soul banished to the warp for centuries. With their gene-sire exiled from the mortal realm, albeit temporarily, the White Scars fled their homeworld, suffering grievous losses in doing so. The three Legions invading Chogoris destroyed many traitor starships, but the White Scars modified engines allowed most to escape. Authorisation for Exterminatus was given, but not before a small team of Inquisitors scoured the vaults and records of Quan Zhou, searching for reasons why the Khan betrayed his father. The information gathered there, at great peril to the Inquisitors in question, informed the Imperium's leaders of what really happened during the initial meeting between father and son, and the Warhawk's discontent and corruption in the years that followed.

With nothing remaining in the Imperium for them, the White Scars left for the Eye of Terror, a relative safe haven for their traitorous ilk. On a Daemon World, near the Eye's centre, the Khan awaited his scions, gifting them a world in the image of Chogoris named T'Ko'Shaar, moulded by the will of Jaghatai and Prince of Desire. Despite the Khagan choosing to reside permanently on T'Ko'Shaar, alongside his Keshig bodyguard, the V have largely become a fleet-based Legion, hesitant about establishing themselves on planetary bodies as the memories of their homeworld's fall remained too fresh in numerous minds. While most White Scars often visit their new daemon-homeworld, either to gift the Khagan with vast and unique riches, resupply and rearm, or experience all a Slaanesh-crafted world can offer, their stay is always temporary, as those that stay too long are prone to become lost in depravity and remain behind to ride their Attack Bikes across the endless plains for years.

The V participated in the Legion Wars, the internecine traitor war that seared hot for centuries before simmering. The White Scars, like the other Traitor Legions when not fighting each other, hunted down the Sons of Fulgrim with little remorse, only tolerating those Sons that were part of the Sect of Slaanesh, even allowing some of those legionnaires to join the _ordu_ , forever shunning their old loyalties for new ones. Among the III, this was looked down upon as cowardice and blood-treachery.

The relationship between the dead Arch-Traitor's own and the bike riders of Jaghatai only improved with the ascension of Tyberius Sakaeron. The Second War Commander assisted his Chogorian allies, and they in turn assisted him, allowing for a largely mutual alliance to be born. This does not mean the two Legions do not fight, far from it, but the acts of violence have lowered significantly since the end of the III's Succession War. To refocus their attention and insatiable desires War Commander Sakaeron enlisted the help of the White Scars in his Vengeance Crusades, striking deep behind Imperial lines, ensuring that anarchy reigned across entire sectors behind the Iron Cage while at the same time Sakaeron struck at the Fortress Worlds barring his invasion of the Imperium proper. In between the Crusades, various Khans and Noyan-Khans have led their warbands into the Imperium for pillaging and raiding, known as 'hunts' to the Chaos White Scars. These hunts keep the Fifth Legion resupplied, as their ability to repair and create new suits of armour, vehicles, and more is severely handicapped by their lack of resources and skill, an unforeseen side effect of the Legion's autonomy during the Great Crusade and mistrust of Imperial administration and assistance. This lack of ability to produce new equipment has made the Scars very effective at looting and forces them to continuously raid Imperial depots.

For ten Crusades only a fraction of the _ordu_ 's multiple warbands took part, but as the 41st Millennium comes to a close and the Eleventh Crusade nears, Jaghatai ordered that the full might of his Legion would join. It is rumoured in the highest tiers of the Inquisition and High Lords that Jaghatai has left T'Ko'Shaar for the first time in a thousand years to take direct command of his legionnaires, who ready themselves for what is believed amongst many in their ranks to be the beginning of the Long War's final campaign.

 **Combat Doctrine-**

The combat doctrine of the Fifth Legion, even before the discovery of their gene-sire, focused on highly mobile warfare, something many other Legions spat upon as cowardly and dishonourable but the Scars' war-records show time after time that their methods prove quite effective. With Jaghatai's arrival it only became enhanced, with a focus on lightning fast attacks, followed by prompt withdrawals to confuse the enemy.

Distancing themselves from the mass warfare of the IV and X, the martial savagery of the XII, the doctrinal and organisational skill of the XIII and the speartip of the XVI, Jaghatai's scions prefer to whittle down at the enemy, drawing them out into ambushes, flanking attacks, supply raids and more to wear down at an enemy until they are vulnerable to annihilation.

The Scars do not see retreat as dishonourable; rather they see it as an acceptable strategy to reform, repair and ready themselves for future conflicts. Many a time the White Scars have left the field of battle, only to return later better prepared and more determined, snatching victory from overconfident Imperials.

'Withdraw, then return,' is a hallmark of the White Scars method of war.

Daemons are also frequently summoned by Stormseers to assist in battle, usually overwhelming the defending contingent through sheer volume of daemons. This allows even small brotherhood-warbands to cause extensive damage.

 **Organisation-**

Since Jaghatai took command of his genome, the adoption of Chogorian traditions and cultural traits began. One notable aspect of this is the V's organisational structure. The brotherhood, what is known in other Legions as a company, became the backbone of how the White Scars formed their Legion, which they often call the _ordu_. These were led by Khans, in respectful imitation of their primarch's title. Above these captain equivalents are Chapter Masters, styled Noyan-Khans, whom lead a collection of brotherhoods known as hordes.

Since their fall to Chaos and subsequent heavy losses suffered during the Heresy, Scouring and Slave Wars, brotherhoods rarely number a thousand Space Marines as was once the norm, with only a select few Khans or Noyan-Khans being able to field Space Marines matching or surpassing a thousand, usually through a combination of charisma, cunning leadership, not to mention power gifted to them from their father or patron.

Organised hordes have entirely disappeared as a permanent unit since the Legion's arrival to the Eye. Though formations called hordes are assembled occasionally, led by charismatic and powerful individuals that usually but not always are Noyan-Khans, these are often short-lived, with fracturing of a horde occurring either through the commander's death, incompetence or when a hunt has ended. The Imperium's various intelligence services, particularly the Inquisition, have acquired through exhaustive efforts a vast amount of information on the current most dominating warlords within the Fifth Legion's ranks. Numbering dozens, these Space Marines are heralds of death and despair wherever the Emperor's Light reigns supreme. Some, such as Hasik Noyan-Khan and Shiban Khan are notorious for their foul deeds and rank amongst Jaghatai's most prized sons.

An interesting designation within the White Scars is that of Master of the Hunt. The Master of the Hunt is a single legionnaire chosen by the primarch, sent on missions of incredible risk. More often than not, he tasked with hunting down specific opponents that have proven a nuisance to the Legion. Created during the Heresy, the Master of the Hunt became the Great Khan's personal headsman. In between primarch-ordained missions, the Space Marine scours the galaxy in the attempt to discover worthy enemies to kill for primarch and god. These Chaos warriors are noted for assassinating many Imperial commanders and leaders on a campaign's eve, crippling Imperial forces. It has been noted through the years that the traitor bearing the dreaded title are incredibly difficult to kill, their bodies healing far more quickly than is the norm for Astartes physiology, becoming ever stronger. The only known way to permanently end a Master of the Hunt's life is to decapitate and immediately burn the body with sanctified promethium.

The latest Master of the Hunt is called Kor'sarro Khan, known more notoriously by daemons and mortals alike as Doomrider. Fifty-first Master of the Hunt, Kor'sarro has held the position longer than any that came before him, serving the Great Khan and Slaanesh in this manner for nearly three centuries. His most recent actions, known as quests amongst his brethren, have destabilised several Tau colonies bordering Imperial territory. The Tau, in their ignorance, believes the Doomrider to be of the Emperor's Adeptus Astartes, causing the never ending border skirmishes between the two empires to escalate into large-scale warfare. As Tau soldiers wrongly invade Imperial space in numbers not seen since the Damocles Gulf Crusade and encroach on the Iron Cage containing the Maelstrom, the Imperium can ill afford to send suitable reinforcements to stop the xenos invasion as its resources and attention are focused elsewhere.

 **Recruitment-**

The White Scars have ever been a small force when compared to their fellow Legions. Never numbering more than eighty thousand at their peak during the Great Crusade's end, the V decreased to approximately seventy thousand following their purge on Chondax.

After the exodus to the Eye following the rebellion's defeat and its ensuing death throes, the White Scars numbered barely a third of their former pre-Heresy strength. But the White Scars have endured, and have become the stronger for it, for their current numbers surpass the amount that had first sworn oaths of loyalty to the Arch-Traitor.

The legionnaires that oversee the arduous process of turning a human child into a transhuman monster are the Fleshweavers. Part Apothecary, part Chaplain, these surgeons and spiritual contaminators choose new Aspirants from the vast slave population the Legion maintains, choosing only the strongest and those that can accept the primarch's blood and touch of Slaanesh.

As was done when the Legion fought for the Imperium, the difficult training and traditions, including the ritual scarification that gives them their name, continue to this day, ensuring that despite the White Scars numbers unable to rise meteorically only the deadliest don the armour of legionnaire.

As almost all of the Legion's new blood are enslaved children taken in hunts or born on the Legion's warships, uncommon is it for an Aspirant to come from the few worlds the White Scars control, as warp taint mutates the genetic structure of mortals, making compatibility with Jaghatai's gene-seed rare.

 **Homeworld-**

Chogoris had been a jewel within the cosmos. Vibrant blue oceans, imposing mountains and endless grass-covered plains revealed a spartan yet undeniable beauty to any who gazed upon it. Chogoris had been the home of the White Scars for well over a century when destruction came to it. Following that defeat, the primarch settled himself in daemon-form onto T'Ko'Shaar, gifted to him by the Dark Prince. It is here where the primarch has lived for ten millennia, only leaving it on occasion for a hunt into the Imperium, though as the centuries progressed this became more and more of a rarity.

 **Beliefs-**

The White Scars have longed pursued enrichment, whether it be sensory in nature or martial prowess. As the Scars fell to the corrupting influence of the Youngest God, their former honour and justness became twisted into foul parodies.

For ten thousand years the Fifth Legion has been the chosen instruments of Slaanesh, their descent into depravity and hedonism have made the White Scars a terror across the stars. It is not uncommon for White Scar Astartes to bear Mark of Slaanesh alongside the winged thunderbolt of the Legion.

Since their relocation to the Eye, the White Scars have prophesised a final invasion of the Imperium, one in which it will be conquered and moulded anew to accept the Traitor Legions as the paragons of Mankind that the rebel Space Marines know themselves to be. Almost all call Sakaeron's latest invasion the Eleventh Vengeance Crusade, but the V know it simply as both the Final Hunt and the Great Hunt.

 **Gene-seed-**

The Legions gene-seed has degraded over the millennia, though sensory feedback has been greatly enhanced. The pleasure centres of the brain have been expanded to better compensate for potential sensory overload. The various Space Marine organs have experienced varying amounts of mutation, but do perform adequately enough to function.

 **Battlecry-**

The White Scars battlecry has evolved since their switch of allegiance. Common battlecries are "For the Khan and Slaanesh!" "For the Khagan!" and "For the Great Khan!" but as the Eleventh Vengeance Crusade nears its initiation, chants of "The Great Hunt comes!" and "The Final Hunt awaits!" are often spoken aloud eagerly.


	9. Nightmares

**Nightmares**

The screaming never ended. It was continuous, the anguish rushing to his psyche as if it were an oncoming tide. Beyond the screaming, fire reigned supreme. Buildings became slag, monuments wilted by heat, and glass pyramids fractured like Mankind's hope; people had their flesh consumed by the flame and their bones charred ruins. Ash and death ruled the air. Tizca died, horribly, quickly, but yet at the same time it was painfully slow, watching all that was dear become nothing more than an executioner's target. From the sky came fiery pods of death, their cargoes filled with murderers and savage killers. As the pods landed the screaming grew even louder, piercing, wailing. A wolf ran to him from the pods drop site, coloured black and white, saliva and blood falling from its mouth, its eyes a beady red. It stopped, watching him with hateful eyes. It howled a deep and terrifying sound, one that made prehistoric humans move nearer their fires as they clutched stone-tipped spears, hoping to survive. The howl echoed and reverberated, causing the world to shatter.

Iskandar Khayon woke then. Looking at the cramped quarters that constituted his sleeping chamber, he rose. The dreams were getting worse as of late. The feeling of helplessness growing each time his eyes closed. The horrors witnessed on Prospero so long ago haunted him.

Opening his mind, lifting the barriers he had placed there upon sleep, his mind sent a message. +Brother, how do we fare?"

For a moment, no response, but then the psychic voice of Ashur-Kai Qezremah. +Tolerable, Iskandar, tolerable. We should be at our destination in three, maybe four hours.+

+Good. I will join you on the bridge soon.+

The psychic connection was cut; Khayon rose to don his armour. It took longer than it once would have; he no longer had bondsmen assisting him. Since the Heresy, he had eschewed the use of them. Too many he knew, too many he had befriended, had died, whether it be war, chance, or the warp. He had come to understand that all faded, everything died. _All is dust_.

+Should I come with?+

Looking to the black wolf that lay near him, he shook his head.

+No, stay here, Gyre. I was told not to bring daemons to the world, bonded or otherwise. I will be leaving my grimoire here, as well.+

+Dangerous.+

+Yes, but it will be worth the risk.+

+Do you really believe that?+ she inquired.

+I have to,+ he responded grimly.

Once wearing the Mark II plate, he left his personal quarters, grimoire and tutelary remaining there. Past the anteroom, where once he would have entertained brothers or cousins, he now walked by, ignoring what had been reality and now only a memory. Two Space Marines guarded his room, though they were not the same individuals that received gene-seed centuries ago. Looking at them, he saw them stare straight ahead, no nod, no private comment or even bodily quirks. They were Rubricae, hollowed beings that had been, were, good men.

Seeing Mekhari and Djedhor standing there, motionless like Manus' automatons, angered Khayon. It angered him because he had failed to stop Ahriman's crime, forcing the depleted XV to shrink further to only a few hundred that were truly alive. His father was not blameless, far from it, as his assistance and advice allowed Ahriman to complete his work. Sending a minor psychic pulse, they began to follow him as he made his way to the ship's command centre.

The Rubric may have turned out worse than it did, but already the cost had been too high. The few thousand that had survived the Heresy limped to Sortiarius to begin anew, readying themselves to one day take revenge on those that had cast them down. The hypocrites, the liars, the traitors: the Imperium, an empire of blind fools and ambitious despots. The Legion had been preparing, drawing upon the lore that had survived the Burning and the new knowledge acquired to sharpen a spear to drive into the Imperium's heart.

But then the flesh-change returned, killing some, and making more turn into monsters of mutation. As their numbers fell, Ahriman's madness rose. Khayon had been there the day Magnus asked his sons to find a way to stop it, to save themselves from certain death. Many laboured, searched, studied, but it quickly became obvious only something drastic would save the Thousand Sons. While he had been studying how to halt the mutation on a genetic level, Ahriman had felt only the Great Ocean had the power to do so. When Khayon discovered what the First Captain had in mind, he attempted to stop Ahriman and his cabal, but he was too late. The Rubric had been cast and he witnessed brothers falling to the ground, their roars of torments echoing on the Planet of Sorcerers. They did not die, not truly, but nor did they live. The Rubricae were no longer men, rather now imprisoned dust and warp-touched armour.

Magnus had not been too pleased to see so many of his sons souls locked for eternity, but he had thanked Ahriman for saving what could be saved. _The bastard thanked that arrogant…_

Reaching the bridge's sealed doors after a half hour, he sighed, his hate cooling from an inferno to a simmer. The simmer remained, it drove him. What had been done can always be undone. It was not too late to save his brothers; at the very least they could be given final, restful peace.

Walking onto the bridge, Khayon's head moved to look at the Anamnesis, his sister's corpse-like figure turning as he entered. Her hands were deathly pale, data-wires and neural plugs covered most of her neck and back, her head the centre of a hive of cabling. Her hand went to the chilled glass. Walking to her, he put his gauntlet on the glass.

"Are you there? Can you hear me?"

"Of course, captain, my auditory registration is working at maximum efficiency."

Sighing again, he left her. She may look like his sister, and on occasion he would almost believe she was still in there, but his sister died long ago. The being behind him was a broken parody. Everything around him was broken, as was he.

Moving to stand beside the White Seer, Khayon glanced at the other sorcerer.

+Speak your mind.+ he pulsed.

The Astartes hesitated for a moment, gathering his thoughts. +Iskandar, we turned away from a very lucrative raid on a Third Legion planet to come here. What if what you seek is not here?+

+What _I_ seek? Have you lost trust in me, have you given up?+ His mind's voice carried with it despair, anger, loss and above all a desire for something greater.

Qezremah shook his head minutely. +I respect what we are doing, Iskandar, but there is no hope of reversing the Rubric. If the Crimson King could not correct its errors, what chance do we have?+

+Hope?+ Khayon looked out amongst the bridge, several view-screens broke or flickering, a cogitator unit shut down, its parts recycled to keep others functioning. The crew numbered half of what it should have, with many lacking substantial training. +Hope is all we have, the only thing that is keeping me going. I will not stop until all possibilities have been exhausted.+

+But this world, it is myth, hearsay.+

Harsh laughter erupted from the Thousand Son captain, physical not psychic mirth. Several of the crew glanced at the two Space Marines but quickly went back to their duties, not deigning to attract the wrath of their masters. +We are in the Eye of Terror, Ashur-Kai. Reality is defied here and what were once thought as myths and superstitions walk among us. I contracted myself to Esha'kar for three years to learn this information. That Word Bearer has been proven correct before.+

+This is unwise…+

+Your opinion has been noted.+ His psychic voice hardened, pulsing with annoyance and he did not even try to hide it. +If you have nothing to contribute, then mind your tongue.+

The other Astartes glared at Khayon, but his features softened after a moment. Qezremah knew Khayon meant no harm in his words, but years of frustration and doubt could gnaw away at anybody. It already had for so many.

The hours passed slowly. Khayon stood quite still for that entire time, an occasional shuffling of the shoulders or tilt of head to show he was different from the Rubricae, that he was still human no matter how loosely. Eventually, a klaxon sounded. The Anamnesis spoke, the oddly feminine machine voice always a painful reminder, "Exit translation in five minutes."

The emergence of the _Tlaloc_ from the Immaterium was fairly smooth, as was for most ships that wandered the Eye. Dangerous, yes, but if the proper respect and payment was given due, then the beasts that prowled the warp were accepting of those that passed through their domain, albeit marginally.

The world was a desert, its sands spruce blue, the sky a sickly yellow. It was a flat world, only a single structure rose on the surface: a temple. The Tlaloc settled in over the temple, weapons armed and shields ready.

The _Tlaloc_ 's captain walked to the docking bay. There he met twenty Rubric Marines, a fifth of this warship's contingent. Qezremah was there as well. The White Seer opened his mouth to speak.

+We will discuss it later, Ashur-Kai. Now is not the time,+ Khayon pulsed quickly.

Qezremah's expression cooled. +I merely meant to wish you luck. I hope you find the answers you seek.+

Bending his neck slightly, both in response and apology, Khayon boarded the Stormbird. The flight to surface was uneventful, but as he exited the dropship's hold his vox clicked with another attempting to form a connection. Blink-clicking the rune, the channel was formed.

"Yes?" His voice sounded odd to his ears, rare was it for him to use it extensively.

 _"Captain Khayon, we have detected five ships exiting the warp."_ The Anamnesis sounded utterly calm, a rock in a gentle flowing river.

"Classification and Legion?" he ordered.

 _"Analysing… analysing… A battle-barge, two strike cruisers and two destroyers."_

"Legion, what is their Legion?"

 _"Sons of Fulgrim."_

Khayon became silent, staring up past the yellow clouds to try and see five stars moving, showing them to be nearby starships. The _Tlaloc_ was a strike cruiser, fast and deadly, but compared to the squadron approaching the planet, it might as well have been a rodent against a dune viper.

To return to the ship would be relatively easy, but Khayon could not leave here, not when he had finally arrived.

+Ashur-Kai, hail them…+

+Brother, they are already hailing us.+

+Put it through.+ The vox popped and hissed, the interference great and connection poor, but when he heard an audible click it cleared significantly.

"This is Captain Iskandar Khayon of the Thousand Sons, leader of the Kha'Sherhan Warband. Who are you and state your intentions?"

Dry laughter came across first. As Khayon's hackles rose, a familiar voice spoke. _"It is good to hear your voice again, cousin. It has been centuries."_

Khayon knew that voice. "Sakaeron. I thought you were dead."

 _"Yes, a useful rumour."_

"What in the gods' names are you doing here?"

 _"The same as you I garner, searching for answers."_

"I will not withdraw. I need this."

 _"Do not fret; I will not force you off. In fact I will join you."_

Khayon's mind raced in thought. "Leave your squadron, only approach with a single strike cruiser."

 _"No trust? Come now, brother, I thought we became close during Gharran."_

"That was long ago."

 _"Fair enough, I will be there shortly."_

The link was cut, and the wait began. It lasted little over an hour, but eventually a purple and gold Stormbird broke through the cloud coverage to land opposite of his own. The first to exit was an officer, bearing lord commander markings. He did not wear a helm, though one was mag-locked to his hip. Tyberius Sakaeron, Lord Commander of the Second Millennial, led twenty Sons, ten of whom wore Cataphractii plate.

The Sons of Fulgrim faced the Thousand Sons, watching for cues from their commander. Sakaeron's face was expressionless but it broke into a predator's grin after a moment.

"Iskandar, it has been too long." The Third Legion officer moved to him swiftly, his men staying behind.

The Rubricae stood motionless, their bolters held tightly, though not aimed at the approaching legionnaire. They would only act if Khayon sent a psychic command...

The sound of metal brushing against ceramite made Khayon glance back, glad his face was covered by a helmet. The Rubricae were standing at attention, their heads looking at Sakaeron as he walked across the blue sand towards them. Impossible… unless. Khayon opened his mind's eye, to look at the lord commander through his gift.

Sakaeron emanated power, rising from him like smoke from a fire. Sakaeron was clearly blessed by Chaos, but he still lacked his own innate psyker abilities. Sakaeron did not control the Rubric Astartes, merely allowed their old selves come to the fore, paying respect to an officer from an allied Legion. Remarkable; worrying, but nonetheless remarkable. While Sakaeron radiated power, subtly but without a doubt, the blade at his hip pulsed with malevolence.

Realising what it was came as a shock. He could not help but fall to his knees, such was the power coming off of it in painful waves Khayon saw the blade as if were drawn, used by the Phoenician when he killed Dorn and crippled the Emperor. _Fireblade_ , forged by Manus, wielded by Fulgrim; the psychic resonance was akin to a hurricane, storming against his defences.

He pictured himself being there, at the doors to the Throne Room.

 _Dorn's decapitated body lay at his feet. Even in death, the Seventh Primarch glowered. From the Throne Room came methodical footsteps, looking up he saw a golden figure, visage stiff in anger and loss. They locked gazes, and readied themselves for battle, in this plane and the next._

Blood dripped from Khayon's nose. Wrenching his helm off, as he felt claustrophobic, he breathed the acrid and cloying atmosphere of the planet, his genhanced body filtering out the minor toxins and impurities with ease.

"Why, Iskandar, I had no idea you were so sensitive."

"That blade… it is not yours," his voice rasped, eyes watering. Blood finally stopped trickling from his nose, but some of it entered his mouth, the coppery tang of his blood seemingly more bitter than usual at that moment.

Pulling it from its sheath, the Rubricae still standing at attention and followed the sword, Sakaeron placed the tip in the dirt. The blood was long gone, but the residue, the memory of the Heresy's climax, remained.

"This was once my father's blade, but he is dead now, long gone. I have inherited his blade, his flagship, and his will. I am not the Tyberius Sakaeron you fought beside during the Heresy. I am so much more now."

Khayon recovered enough to rise, wiping the blood from beneath his nose. "Why have you come here, Tyberius?"

Looking at the temple that stood not far away, silent as a grave and fashioned like a crypt tomb. "As I told you, the same as you, cousin. I came for answers."

* * *

The entrance to the temple was closed, but was easily opened by two Terminator-clad Sons. Entering, they were greeted by a hunched figure who was sweeping the floor. Khayon noted that no matter how much dust was swept, it always appeared to return.

"Ah, welcome, great master, great lord, welcome, welcome!"

"And who are you?" Sakaeron's clipped, patrician tones queried sharply.

"I have many names, some known, others forgotten. You may call me the Caretaker."

Sakaeron grunted. "Very well, show us the Mirrors."

The Caretaker bowed low.

They descended into the temple, taking winding steps to go deep into the earth. After what must have been hours they arrived at closed double doors. The Octed was centred, split down the middle by the doors. The sigils of the Four Powers resided in each corner. Tzeentch and Slaanesh on the left, Nurgle and Khorne on the right; all four pulsed with coloured energy, the Eight-Pointed Star of Chaos glowing baleful gold.

The Caretaker unlocked the doors with an onyx key. "Only you two, with one witness, may enter," he said to the two Space Marine officers.

They followed, Sakaeron and a centurion named Telemachon Lyras came as his witness. Khayon and Mekhari were on their heels. The room they entered was clean, truly clean when compared to the rest of the temple. Before them were six mirrors, arranged in sets of three to each side of the room, with the mirrors placed one behind another. In the centre was a great tome, the words seeming to move across the coloured pages like worms in the mud.

"What is this place?" muttered Lyras, whose hand had not left his blade since the Astartes took to the winding staircase.

"This is a place of destiny," replied Khayon.

"Correct, great lord, correct!" Gesturing towards the two sets, the Caretaker motioned them forward. "Now, if you please, step forward. I will guide you."

"Why are you being so helpful?" queried Khayon. The eagerness the small being exhibited was uncommon and eerie, especially from one who resided in the Eye.

The Caretaker's's eyes flicked toward Sakaeron, who was looking with pleasure at the gilded mirrors. They quickly returned to look at the Prosperine Astartes.

"I was commanded to do so."

"By which of the Powers?"

"All of them."

As Khayon pondered that, Sakaeron walked to the set on the right, looking at them. His hand reached forward, tapping the surface, the mirror rippling as if water. The Chemosian tensed by what he saw as the ripples settled though Khayon could see nothing different, but relaxed.

"What will we see?" asked the lord commander.

"Past, present, future; the what if, the what is, and the what will, from all possibilities and from all threads of time. Many have gone into the mirrors, seen their truths, saw what lay within, and have returned mad. Few make it out; fewer survive with their minds intact. There is risk."'

Sakaeron looked at the Caretaker, "There is always risk."

The creature tilted its head in acknowledgement. "Quite so, great master, quite so."

The purple and gold legionnaire turned back to the mirrors. "Iskandar, go to the others. We will learn much this day, that I guarantee." As he made his way to the other set, Khayon heard Sakaeron proclaim to Lyras.

"Telemachon, if I do not return," his eyes hovered over the still bowed Caretaker, "kill him."

"Yes, Lord Heir."

Khayon stood in front of the left set. The image before him was as he was now, wearing the sapphire blue and gold of the Thousand Sons with master crafted Prosperine crests flanking his helmet, but disturbing the surface created ripples, changing what he saw, morphing him into a corpse in the armour of the old Legion, staring outwards with the decaying flesh falling off. The mouth was open in mockery or despair, he could not tell.

The Caretaker moved to the tome, opening it to an earmarked page. "There is only one way, forward. If you linger, you will die. May the Four of Ruin bless your journey."

Khayon stepped into the mirror, the width and height easily surpassing the size of a fully armed and armoured transhuman physique. The glass felt like melted silver, a chill caressed his skin, an itch began between the shoulders, and a flash of light blinded his vision but as it dimmed in intensity and his eyesight returned he found himself standing in a place he had long known to be gone.

As the light, itch and cold faded, he now stood in his childhood home, Itzara humming as she worked on her studies. Khayon looked on with wonderment. Itzara was whole, alive, aware, not a bastardisation of machine and dead flesh. While his sister worked, he looked around at the simplistic furniture of sand wood and bookshelves of their small library, smelling a hint of cinnamon bread in the air. His mother came from the kitchen, smiling, and her smile only enhanced by her beautifully dark skin.

She looked at him, and instead of gasping or horrified at his body and war-gear, she instead chuckled softly. "Come, Iskandar, eat before the bread gets too cool. Come, come, my _tu'eza_."

 _Tu'eza_ : watchful son, her nickname for him. He had been curious in youth, rarely taking part in playground activities but watching from afar, preferring more subtle methods of winning than brawling, learning, knowing the weaknesses of others were his forte. It was with those skills and a fast learning capacity that allowed him to be chosen from Prospero's youth to became one of the Thousand Sons.

Looking at his body, he noticed that his armour was gone, rather now he wore a simple cotton shirt and trousers, his body proportioned to the size of a young child. Moving to the table, he sat down. Khayon was staring at the woman that birthed him, long dead, as she corrected Itzara's work, and set about readying the table for supper.

"Come, Iskandar, your father will be home soon."

His father? He had little recollection of the man, for he worked as the Defence Militia against psychneuein attacks.

"Where is Magnus?"

"Who, _tu'eza_?"

Khayon blinked in surprise at that statement.

"The Crimson King, lord of Prospero."

His mother looked confused. "I do not know any such man. Are you reading those stories again?"

He detected no lie or playfulness in her words. She truly did not know.

 _There is only one way, forward. If you linger, you will die._ The Caretaker's words washed over Khayon, both his sister and mother seemingly unable to hear it. Behind them in the living room, a mirror appeared, shimmering and out of place.

He rose, wishing to leave. A firm hand clasped his small wrist. His mother looked sad. "Don't leave, Iskandar. Stay, eat, enjoy our company."

The urge to do so was strong, almost compelling, but he resisted with sheer force of will.

"No." He broke free of her grip and walked to the mirror, ignoring the cries of anguish behind him from two women that were once dear to him. _They are not real. Your mother is dead, your sister little more than a corpse._

Stepping into the mirror, the cold, itch and light returned. As they faded, he found himself in an elongated hallway, gilded artwork and beautifully wrought columns in both directions for hundreds of metres before turning sharply elsewhere.

"Ah, Captain Khayon, there you are," spoke a voice familiar to him.

Turning, he saw Ahzek Ahriman walking towards him. The Space Marine's armour shone and his staff of power was alight with aetheric energy. Khayon realised his own armour had returned, coloured red and gold, as did his weapons, including staff.

What caught Khayon's eye was the reddish-gold Aquila on the other Thousand Son's chestplate.

"Why are you wearing that?" he spat.

Ahriman looked down, and sighed.

"Times change, Khayon, and we must with it. With the Traitor Legions broken and in full retreat, we must reaffirm our loyalty to the Throne. This," tapping the double eagle, "is only a symbol of our loyalty, not the essence of it. Magnus told me of how you felt, how us choosing to wear the Aquila made our previous oaths seem hollow. While I understand your reasoning, I am in agreement with the Crimson King"

Ahriman gestured to Khayon, "Come, the ceremony begins soon."

 _Ceremony?_ Almost against his will, Khayon followed his most hated rival. As they walked, bitterness and feeling of betrayal swayed to brotherhood and close acquaintance. _With Ahriman? Impossible._ Looking over the corridors and passing through two plazas open to the night sky, he quickly realised he was on Terra, the Imperial Palace to be exact.

Did the rebel Legions win? No, of course they could not have, not with Ahriman wearing that sigil, nor the First Captain's remarks from earlier. He did not speak as they walked towards the Inner Palace, but he did take note of what he passed and saw.

Several sections of the Palace were clearly battle damaged, some conventional, others through psychic means. Palace staff clutched neck-chained Aquila medallions to their chests, murmuring what sounded like prayers. Khayon frowned. Even in whatever reality he found himself in, the belief the Emperor was a god prevailed, seemingly strong enough for open support in the Imperium's beating heart itself. The more disturbing aspect was Ahriman's lack of reaction. No distaste, apathy, or mirth. Nothing. He acted as if he not only saw the sight regularly but that he _accepted_ it. A nod was given to several Emperor-worshippers as they moved passed, who bowed low to the First Captain. Did… did he share their beliefs? Khayon looked at the Aquila upon his chest with increased disdain. _Who am I here? What am I?_ Their brisk pace brought them to a vast chamber Khayon knew of, but never had step foot in.

The Investiary was near the Throne Room, a chamber where statues of the eighteen primarchs stood. Khayon had heard from his father that during the Heresy the statues of the eight Traitor Primarchs had been covered, but allowed to remain. After the Heresy, they were either destroyed or locked away.

However there were not eighteen statues, but twenty. Khayon looked at the marble representations of the Second and Eleventh Primarch, who stood as tall and proud as their brothers. The Second Primarch was remembered kindly by the Fifteenth Legion, having Dorn's moral sense, Horus' charisma and Angron's strength. But that was long ago, before the purge of Imperial records. But there he stood, as if the events that had led to his removal never occurred.

Turning to the Eleventh, Khayon expected to see the humble, noble features of one whom both Lorgar and Magnus called friend. Instead he looked upon a black sheet covering the statue. Looking around, Khayon noted six others were similarly covered.

The Fifth, Sixth, Tenth, Eleventh, Fourteenth, Eighteenth and Nineteenth Primarch-statues were covered. Seven Legions versus thirteen, with the loyalists holding a clear superiority in numbers…

"Madness," he whispered.

Ahriman nodded. "Four years ago this would have seemed impossible, but three years of bloodshed has made me wonder: could this have been prevented?"

Khayon resisted the urge to descend into barking laughter, laughing that no matter what version of reality out there, all were seemingly grim and dark, ever filled with war and despair.

But he resisted, and waited while the room filled with Imperial Army generals and admirals, Astartes from the Thirteen Loyal Legions – it was sickening to be considered a loyalist here, the Imperium's betrayal ran too deep in him for there to be any alternative – and various governmental flunkies. Bitterly, he saw several of his battle-brothers whom he knew to be Rubricae, were still flesh and blood, their souls not trapped in their armour.

Mixed in with them were primarchs, god-like beings who were titans to mere mortals. He saw the Lion conferring with Perturabo and Lorgar, Horus with Sanguinius and Alpharius, and Fulgrim ignoring those near him to glare at the marble figure of Ferrus Manus. Khayon saw Dorn, who was Praetorian here as well, talking with several of his sons and a Custodian officer, a captain by his markings.

They seemed to be the only ones here, but Khayon heard snatches of conversation.

"The Battle-King has secured Barbarus. Death Guard survivors flee to the Eye of Woe…"

"A Night Lord escorted humanitarian relief fleet came under attack by the Salamanders, but the XVIII retreated when a contingent of the II arrived to assist."

"…The War of Reclamation continues well, already a third of the traitor domains have been liberated. Even now the World Eaters ready for the invasion of Deliverance…"

"Trillions flock to the God-Emperor. His Divine Proclamation has more and more converting every day than the past hundred years. The establishment of the Imperial Church goes well, which is a matter of course with the Aurelian leading it…"

"The Thousand Sons reported this morning that all Chaos taint left over from the Raid had been cleansed from Terra. No more daemons or…"

"Rumours of the Lycan King's sons butchering the Lelmarta Cluster are true. Nearly forty billion killed, all to the sate their blood lust. A combined Emperor's Children, Night Lord and Imperial Fist fleet has begun to reclaim the worlds and rescue the survivors, starting with Cheraut…"

On and on, more and more, until details of this Heresy began to be pieced together. A bloody civil war, but compared to Fulgrim's Heresy, it was pitiful. Outnumbered, outgunned, and on the back foot for the entirety, the rebels were forced to launch a last ditch, desperate attack on the Throneworld, attempting to kill the Emperor. The twenty-three day Raid ended with the Arch-Traitor dead, killed by the combined might of the Emperor and Sanguinius, leaving the rebellion leaderless. What followed was a massacre as Imperial reinforcements in the form of the Second Legion, Iron Warriors, Dark Angels, and Alpha Legion Astartes arrived, trapping a majority of the rebel forces. With the rebellion broken, the War of Reclamation had begun. The traitors fought to keep their conquered territories but they were outmatched in every conceivable way. Many withdrew to the Eye of Terror, called the Eye of Woe here, while the rest scattered throughout the galaxy to rule pocket empires or forever raid and salvage to survive until caught by Imperial forces.

Eventually the room quietened. The largest doors, connected to a hallway that led directly to the Throne Room, opened to admit hundreds of Custodians entering in formation, their Guardian-Spears catching the gleam of Luna and glow-globes. Behind them came Magnus, resplendent in his armour and shockingly sporting two eyes, and the Emperor. He was unharmed, vibrant and alive, not at all like the corpse that sat the Golden Throne in his reality.

The Emperor walked to the centre. Raising His fiery sword, He cut down the statue of Jaghatai Khan, moving onwards to Leman Russ to do the same and from him to Ferrus Manus. This occurred to all the Traitor Primarchs. A speech followed, decrying them Excommunicate Traitoris, and ending with, "Stand with me, and together nothing is impossible. For the Imperium of Man!" The crowd of mortals, transhumans and primarchs cheered at that, roaring like leashed beasts. Khayon felt an urge to join in, to embrace victory, acceptance, kept oaths and pacts, but he did not, he would not. This was not his world, not his reality. It was an Imperial's dream, a relative paradise to what really occurred. A lie where the wrong stood over truth's mutilated corpse and the response to such horror was heartfelt cheering from fools.

 _There is only one way, forward. If you linger, you will die._

He felt the silver gateway's presence, the mirror in the back of the chamber, unnoticed by all. As he turned to leave, he felt a hand grip his armoured wrist. He turned.

"Stay, Iskandar, bask in our victory over those that betrayed us. We won, we are in the right, and we did no wrong as we stand on the side of Truth." Ahriman's gaze pierced through him, but Khayon shook free and walked to the mirror, hearing a saddened sigh from behind amidst a victorious audience.

Stepping through, the now familiar cold, itch and light did not bother him. As he arrived through, the first thing he noticed was he was looking at a chained Space Marine, a body mutated extensively, and spikes piercing the skin and muscle, holding him in place. A servitor was shut down near it, quill and paper with an ink pot nearby waiting to be used. The Astartes raised his head and looked at Khayon and he suddenly became the one chained.

A door opened and a dozen black-coated individuals walked in, a stylized 'I' over their hearts.

The servitor was awoken; the inquisitors arranged themselves in front of Khayon.

"Now, we will continue from where we left off last: just prior to the Battle of Harmony."

 _There is only one way, forward. If you linger, you will die._

A mirror materialised behind the inquisitors. Forcing himself out of the chained body was difficult, he felt as if he had been glued to the chained legionnaire but Khayon once again walked away through indomitable will. Though the mirror was not more than ten metres away, it seemed an eternity had passed before he stood before it. People passed by and through him, the wick candles burning out and replacements brought in, alit.

Glancing back, he saw the chained Khayon of this universe talking to a woman. He heard the other-Khayon talk, a grating voice, but one tempered by countless years of warfare and experiences he could only guess at.

"These are the End Times, Siroca. None of you are destined to survive the coming of the Crimson Path. The Imperium has been losing the Long War since it was first declared, and now we enter the endgame. I will tell you everything, inquisitor, because, for you, it will change nothing."*

 _Such conviction, such belief. Is it true, I wonder?_

Khayon walked into the mirror's surface.

He appeared in the Mirror Room, back on the planet of blue sand and yellow skies. At first, it seemed as all was before his entering of the mirrors, but all in the room were faded out, as if phantoms. The Caretaker stood beside the tome, reading it with hands in the air as if leading an orchestra, his voice mumbled as he spoke.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" asked a voice.

Turning quickly, he saw the Caretaker beside him, only this time he appeared real, solid; the ghost image of the Caretaker continued to read and speak.

"What was that? Why did I go to those places?"

"To teach you. In the first, you were a young boy whose world never knew of Magnus or the Imperium. The second you were a loyal legionnaire that fought for the Anathema, a world where Magnus created the self-limiting Nikaean Edict, subjecting the Thousand Sons to rules and regulations, never to study forbidden teachings or search for unknown knowledge, all due to the Emperor's and Magnus' fear. A weakness common amongst your species. In the third, you were a prisoner of the Inquisition, beginning the first tale of your life to your captors, voluntarily informing them of their doom."

"Why?"

"The reasons why vary, but in the first you were helpless, weak. The second you were blindly loyal to honeyed lies and self-imposed limitations, oblivious to truths you now take for granted. And the third you were overconfident, arrogant, weary of war. Are these paths you wish to take here in this universe as those other Khayons did in theirs?"

"No," the answer was immediate. "I cannot go back to my family, as they are all dead save my sister, and as a mortal I could not change my brothers' fate. I will not join the Imperium, for their betrayal and murder of my kin can never be forgiven. And I will never give in to the Inquisition, never surrender. I am Iskandar Khayon, Captain of the Thousand Sons, survivor of Prospero, I will not give up until the Imperium I built is torn down and remade. The murderers, the liars and the despots will be cast down and the galaxy will see the truth the Heresy failed to convey."

The Caretaker was silent for a moment. Snapping his fingers, a vertical slash of eldritch light erupted from behind.

"Another mirror? Another reality?"

"Not quite. Those tested your mind, made sure it was ready to handle harsh facts and dire information. Go into it, and come out reborn."

The Caretaker's solid form faded back into his shadow self. The slash of light continued to remain open. Readying himself, Khayon went into the rift and everything changed.

* * *

Emerging from the rift, he gasped for air. Looking around, everything seemingly real and material. Centurion Lyras looked at him anxiously, Mekhari standing motionless as always. The Caretaker had withdrawn to the corner of the room, watching silently.

Lyras rushed to him. "Did you see him? Where is Sakaeron? Where is the Heir?" Desperation tinged the Son's voice.

Before Khayon could respond, a vertical line opened in the air and a purple and gold figure fell to the floor. Smoke steamed off armour, though frost hung from the new arrival's hair. Remaining on his hands and knees, Sakaeron looked up at them. After a moment in which he blinked slowly, the Son of Fulgrim began to laugh maniacally, a deep, booming sound that unnerved Khayon. It was a sound of madness, of war, of rebirth; it was a sound of a warlord ascendant.

* * *

"Did you find the answers you were looking for?" asked Sakaeron when they returned to the surface. The Caretaker remained in his temple, bidding them farewell.

Khayon shook his head slowly. "I found answers, not the ones I desired, but nevertheless much was revealed to me in the rift." Looking sideways, Khayon winced his mind's eye. If Sakaeron's warp signature had been smoke of a flame before, now it was a raging fire, blazing and all consuming.

"No cure, then?"

"No." He looked at Mekhari and the other Rubricae. "The knowledge to fix the Rubric is out there, but… it is not for me to find."

"Do you know who will?"

Khayon stared at the red eye lenses of the Rubric Marines. "I have an idea who, but he may never find the answer. It is hidden away, in a repository created by an ancient bloodline. It is doubtful it will ever be discovered, but if anyone can he will."

"If you did not see what you sought, what did you discover?"

Khayon turned to look at Sakaeron. "I saw a future where I stood by your side, waging war against the False Emperor's Realm. I have a purpose to fulfil by your side. You will be the herald of our revenge."

Sakaeron smiled. "I saw something similar. You will be one of my chief lieutenants, a valued officer, and a true comrade." Sakaeron positioned himself in front of Khayon. "What say you? Will you join me?"

Khayon knew the minute he emerged from the rift what his answer would be. It was the only way the nightmares would subside, for him to gain the revenge he so desperately desired, and for justice to be attained. Kneeling in the sand, he brought a clenched fist to chest in the warrior's salute; a mind pulse had the Rubricae kneel as well, bolters clasped to their chests. "I will follow you, Tyberius Sakaeron, Heir of Fulgrim, Chosen of Chaos, Master of the Third Legion, and future War Commander."

Sakaeron stood over him, his presence heavy and aura of command permeating all. Sakaeron rested a hand on Khayon's shoulder pad.

"Good. Now rise, cousin, we have much to do. Welcome to the Long War."

* * *

 ***Khayon-to-Siroca scene coming from Aaron Dembski-Bowden's novel _The Talon of Horus_ , page 348. All credit to the author, Black Library and Games Workshop. No copyright infringement intended. Used for entertainment purposes only***


	10. Sagyar Mazan

**Sagyar Mazan**

 **Day 23**

The earth moved as hundreds of booted feet ran by. Lying still, armour locked and set to minimal power, he lay in the volcanic ash and dirt. His sensors were on passive, bolter mag-locked to the side, effectively useless, and a Legion-forged blade clutched in his hand, dried blood marring its once pristine surface.

Below him, deep in the endless tunnels and caverns, sat nearly eighty Orks. They were feasting, eating their smaller sub-species gretchin. Sounds of guttural laughter sounded odd here, many things had become strange since the Khagan betrayed them.

The vox clicked once, twice. Torghun Khan responded with his own clicks, three in rapid succession.

 _Enemy unaware._

 _Take them swiftly._

Throughout the ridgeline two dozen ash-covered forms rose, revealing ivory, gold and red colouring. Their armour began to power on, sensors went to active, their helms alighting with information and data-statistics. Most did not carry bolters, ammunition was beyond scarce and what little was left was conserved, but all carried power swords or chainswords, power spears, chainglaives or chainaxes. Torghun did not mind the lack of firepower. Since the primarch's betrayal, close combat was all that could cool his burning anger.

The White Scars moved to the Orks, as quiet as Mark II plate would allow. They moved like hungry predators, desperate for the kill but patient to ensure its success. They had laid on the ridgeline for three days, waiting for the Orks below to deploy in the ever-going war in Chondax's caverns. Hundreds left, leaving only this small amount to guard their supply depot. It was not the first depot Torghun had destroyed, nor would it be the last. With no chance for resupply, the Space Marines were forced to scavenge from their dead and the xenos. Deplorable, but for survival some distasteful things must come to pass. Some Legions may have struggled without consistent resupply, or would not adapt well. For the Fifth Legion, it was not the first time they had gone without, making do with what they have or could take; it was a factor of life.

The khan led his men as they neared the greenskin perimeter. Three were lookouts, though clearly they felt safe this far in Ork territory. Three Astartes approached and three Orks fell, the sound of their bodies crumpling to the ground covered by the other xenos' feasting and noise.

Encircling the enemy took several minutes, another eight of the beasts were killed as the Scars readied for the charge. No words were spoken, only clicks. Even Orks could be monitoring vox traffic, but the clicks would likely be associated with interference. Torghun was more than happy to exploit such oversight.

When in position, the khan clicked once. _Attack._

The Scars emerged from behind various rocks and ashen piles, surging forward. Torghun decapitated a large brute before it was aware they were under attack. Torghun dodged another's axe swing, penetrating the Ork with his sword, the power sword cutting through flesh as easy as a hot monomolecular sharp knife through butter.

A curse in Low Gothic brought his attention to the left. One of his battle-brother's chainsword became stuck in the thick muscle and compacted sinew of a greenskin's chest. Another Ork was coming to kill the entangled Astartes. It rose its own weapon, a metal tipped cudgel. A flash of light from the ridgeline blinked and the beast was hit with a bolt, its chest exploding. It continued to crawl towards the battle-brother, but the legionnaire had retrieved his blade and executed the wounded xenos.

Torghun saw more flashes from the ridgeline, the snipers there using their reserve of bolts to kill threatening Orks or save brothers in trouble. The khan raised his sword in salute, and entered back into the melee.

The battle, though a more appropriate word would have been skirmish, ended several minutes later. No casualties suffered by the Astartes, all of the enemy were dead; their bodies covered with promethium jelly and set aflame. Compatible ammunition was taken and distributed amongst the legionnaires. Torghun's bolter now held eleven bolts, less than half of what it could carry.

Opening the vox, he spoke for the first time in days. "Well done, brothers. We return to base."

The twenty-seven Space Marines left the cavern chamber, heading towards their sanctum of relative safety.

* * *

 **Day 24**

The home base, nicknamed Sanctuary by several White Scars with a dark sense of humour, was a ramshackle collection of armoured vehicles, weapon turrets and waning spirits situated into a deep alcove in one of Chondax's monolithic caverns, one of a quite extensive system.

Targutai Yesugei, _zadyin arga_ of the Fifth Legion, walked amidst his brothers. He did not comfort them as that was the duty of the few remaining Chaplains, but he did note the mood. It was oppressive, brooding, and worse. Since Jaghatai decided to purge his Legion of those whose loyalty was first to the Emperor, the survivors were becoming morbid, uncaring whether they lived or die. They saw no hope. Yesugei hoped to change that.

As he walked towards the command Land Raider, Yesugei noted and responded to the bows of head and clenched fist to chest salute, but he saw some of his brothers' scowl at him. He knew why. Almost all the loyalist legionnaires were Terran or from other worlds, but Yesugei was Chogorian. One of the first Chogorians inducted into the Legion, and one who fought beside the Khagan on Chogoris before the Imperium's arrival. His link to the Khagan was looked on upon with… suspicion.

Yesugei knew that the primarch's relation with the Emperor had always been fragile, and Horus' first actions as Warmaster had alienated Jaghatai, but the Stormseer still found it difficult that what had come to pass had happened. The Land Raider was flanked by three legionnaires of the Horde of the Earth, which had been deployed almost in its entire.

After passing them, he opened a vox channel with the occupant inside. "Noyan-Khan, I must speak with you."

"Enter."

Yesugei entered the modified Space Marine tank, designed for a more command function rather than combat, it featured several vox-casters, long-range auspex sensors and more. The White Scar looking over a data-slate was old, having been one of the first legionnaires of the V when it was founded on Terra. When the primarch had been discovered by the Master of Mankind, Jemulan had been a captain. After adopting Chogorian titles, he had been khan, then raised to Noyan-Khan. Jemulan was the only one of that rank to be deemed more loyal to the Emperor than the Great Khan. Now, he led the survivors in their war against the Orks that infested the planet.

The officer turned to the Stormseer. "Yes, Yesugei?" The voice was tired, so very tired.

"I may have a way for us to contact the Imperium."

Jemulan's gaze sharpened on the other Scar. "Are you sure? Do not say this lightly, weather-maker. The others do not need to be led on by false hope."

Yesugei nodded in understanding. "I have conferred with my fellow _zadyin arga_ , and we believe we can channel a psychic pulse to act as a beacon, a flare if you will."

"You are not astropaths, your powers lay elsewhere."

The Stormseer tilted his head in acknowledgement of the statement. "Quite so, however we have theorised if we combine our psychic potential and lend our power to a single Stormseer who acts as the conduit to power the signal we could create this beacon-flare."

Jemulan nodded, trusting his brother's information.

"Risks?"

"There are two. First, the Orks have few if any psykers in their ranks, the weirdboyz, but they as a species are sensitive to the warp, able to detect significant or prolonged psychic use. They will know our location and will attack."

"And the second?"

"We Stormseers will be forced to open ourselves up to the warp, allowing potential _yaksha_ interference. We will need to be watched, and if need be, eliminated."

Jemulan pondered on this for a few seconds. "There are indeed risks, but it is better than waiting to die." The Noyan-Khan stood up, "Very well, Yesugei, you have my permission to proceed. Be careful, brother."

"I always am."

* * *

 **Day 27**

It took three days to prepare. Soul-searching and mind purification readied the nineteen Stormseers for the task ahead. A chamber adjourning to the principal cavern, lined with crystals and nuggets of raw metals, was selected for the ritual. Yesegui was in the centre, lines of power drawn in the black sand, with the other eighteen surrounding him. All stood in a circle, ringed with wards, weak and temporary as they were it was still better than nothing. Jemulan had informed the others, and they readied themselves for battle.

Yesugei noted three squads entering the chamber, taking position around the Astartes psykers. The commander moved towards Yesugei.

"Ah, Torghun Khan, it is good to see you again."

"Likewise, Stormseer," the Terran responded, formally while others were around. Since the war began in Chondax, Torghun and Yesugei had become acquaintances, discussing their purpose in the Great Crusade and their respective duties. That acquaintance had developed into a respectful friendship.

"You know what to do?" he asked the line officer. Torghun nodded. "Good. Then we shall begin."

Yesugei raised his staff, impaling it in the ground. "Brothers," he spoke to the other weather-makers, "open yourselves to the elements, open your minds, draw on the energy there, but be wary. Predators stalk here."

Within moments, they began to chant, lending their strength to Yesugei, whose staff glowed lightning white-blue. Yesugei built up the power in him, knowing that when he unleashed it, the warp-spawn would start to approach and the Orks would be alerted. Eyes clenched, he waited for the power to build to where he would no longer be able to contain it.

It became painful, intoxicating in its agony, his senses enhanced beyond measure and darkness surrounded him, but he ignored it. The _yaksha_ would not tempt him, no matter their strength.

Gripping his staff, he opened his eyes and they emitted the same white-blue colour as the staff.

"Let us begin."

* * *

For hours the Stormseers sent their psychic pulse into the Immaterium, acting akin to a lighthouse, but instead of guiding, it was trying to attract attention.

While the _zadyin arga_ stood immobile, their minds so focused on the matter on hand, Torghun watched them warily. He did not have an aversion to psykers, but what they were doing was incredibly dangerous. The khan walked around the statuesque Astartes, his own men as wary and watchful as he. Giving a word of encouragement, or checking equipment was all he could do for the moment.

His vox was tied to his squad's frequency, but the main frequency was also monitored. Therefore, Torghun heard when the Noyan-Khan spoke, "The Orks are here."

* * *

Sanctuary had been chosen for its isolation from the other caverns, as well as being easily defendable. If well supplied, the defenders could hold off an attack indefinitely. But the supply situation was dire, forcing Jemulan Noyan-Khan to form ranks to block the small entrance to Sanctuary, with those with shields and spears in the front with several more in support while what few heavy weapons remained were atop the three Land Raiders that had survived.

The first sign of the xenos was the distant yelling and war-cheering. Then came the rumbling of the ground; the last was their approach.

"Hold," he voxed, his own shield and power spear raised and readied, the shield interlocking with those of his nearest brothers. Tactical information flooded his visor and he processed the necessary information and discarded the irrelevant.

The Orks came rushing towards them, hundreds, then thousands as more and more appeared, an endless green river.

"Hold, brothers." The green sea was rapidly approaching. "We fight for the Emperor, brothers. We are of His making, His design. We will not fail, we will be rescued, but we must deny the enemy."

The throaty roar of the greenskins echoed in the enclosed tunnel. They were close now, seventy metres... sixty metres... fifty metres.

"Fire!"

The heavy bolters, lascannons, and the single plasma cannon unleashed their ordinance upon the xenos, tearing through the front ranks, killing nearly a hundred in the opening salvo, but it did not greatly thin the ranks. Despite the weight of fire, many Orks broke through, such was their number.

The Orks that met the Space Marines met a wall of seventy-three storm shields. Storm shields, used in boarding actions were as tall as each Astartes, wide enough to protect them and as thick as a hand's span. Jemulan pierced an Ork through the head, his power spear easily passing through the thick skull.

"Push!" The wall of ceramite and plasteel took a step, forcing some Orks to fall down, only to be killed by the second rank of legionnaires, whose swords quickly became drenched in gore.

Jemulan's spear impaled an Ork's chest, killing it, but its fellows held on to the spear outside its power field, not allowing retrieval. "Down!" he ordered.

The first three ranks knelt whilst the fourth and fifth unloaded an entire clip of bolter fire into the Orks. As the fire ended, the legionnaires rose. Jemulan retrieved his spear from dead alien hands. "Push!"

A battle-brother fell, helm cracked open by a jumping Ork with an axe. The line shifted to cover the small gap left by the fallen legionnaire. The Ork was quickly killed by those behind the dead Scar. The shield and spear were picked up and the line made whole again.

"Push!" The rate of fire from behind was declining, ammo was running out, energy charges depleting and plasma coils overheating.

Hundreds of greenskins were dead, only a single legionnaire dead, but that ratio would not last.

 _Finish the beacon, Yesugei, finish it!_

* * *

It appeared as a blue fire in their mind's eye. Yesugei stood beside it, directing the flows, concentrating them. The other eighteen psyker Astartes gave their power to him, fuelling him. In the Immaterium, they stood in an open field on Chogoris, surrounded by _ko'tesh_ stalk-grass.

A howl of malevolence reached them.

+They come.+

In the real world they were immobile, but here they could move, they could fight. Only he could not participate; the directing and managing of the flows taking all of his focus.

The stalks rustled and warp spawn emerged, taking on various predator forms from Chogoris. The psykers raised their blades and staffs; no bolter would harm them, only ancient weapons would banish ancient beings in this realm.

As the psykers fought, knowing that if they lost here then they would be open to possession, they did so with contained fury, expertly blocking, dodging and executing blows. Yesugei was proud of them, but he knew, as they did too, that not all would survive.

Jaiso Buia was the first to die, his legs cut out from under him by a _yaksha_ imitating a _foko'rai_ predator. When Jaiso fell, he continued to fight but a dozen _yaksha_ fell upon him, and his death-screams were of defiance.

"Torghun, one has fallen! One has fallen!" Yesugei screamed as more daemons approached.

* * *

+…has fallen. One has fallen!+

The words were whispered, but they came from within. Torghun knew who sent them. His eyes scanned the Stormseers, looking for any sign. All were immobile still, their faces locked in concentration.

Must have been the _yaksha_ …

Stormseer Jaiso Buia began to shake.

One of his legionnaires moved to assist. "Brother, are you-"

The Stormseer's staff lashed out, caving in the chestplate of the Astartes, crushing organs and killing him instantly.

Jaiso opened his eyes and they simmered red with death.

"Jaiso…" warned Torghun, drawing his blade.

A deep, hateful voice responded, the words dripping with murderous promise. "Not… any… more."

Torghun rushed the yaksha, sword activated and the daemon readied its staff which now warped into a mace.

The other Astartes rushed to meet the possessed Stormseer.

The daemon backhanded Torghun, sending him flying into the crystalline wall. It grabbed a legionnaire's helm, crushing it like rotten fruit with a squeeze. Another brother unloaded his bolter into the beast, weakening it, but not killing it. Torghun pushed himself up from where he lay, gritted his teeth, and re-joined the fray.

* * *

Hours had passed. The ammunition was all but gone, the Orks never ending. Plasma coils were fried; the lascannon only had enough power to fire six, perhaps seven shots. The Noyan-Khan sidestepped a spiked hammer's blow, allowing the Astartes behind him to kill the hammer's bearer.

"Push!"

Another step, another hundred dead Orks, and another two dead White Scars; over forty Scars were dead now.

 _Hurry, Yesugei, do it now!_

* * *

The fire was higher now, reaching into the clouds. It was ready, this inferno.

Turning to look at his brothers, he saw six were dead, their bodies now possessed in the Materium.

Kneeling into the dirt, he wrote sigils of power and protection, speaking in Khorchin.

Once finished, he stood again. "Brothers!" he yelled. "Stand fast."

Holding his staff with both hands, he slammed it into the earth and the flame spiralled farther into the sky with more flames spreading outwards from it to encompass them all.

* * *

Torghun decapitated the fourth possessed Stormseer, killed before it was able to manifest, the shaking was the sign of possession. He had lost thirteen brothers to kill four and two remained. As the Space Marines barred their blades to fight the remaining two, a blue wave of energy passed from Yesguei throughout the chamber. The two possessed fell down, banished. The wave continued to expand outwards.

Another Ork was killed, but his spear was lost, pulled into the mass of bodies. Jemulan pulled his sword from its scabbard. Raising it, he was about to shout an order when a blue wave passed through him. It did nothing to him and his men, but the Orks fell down, writhing in agony and death-throes. Blood trickled from their eyes, nose, mouth, and ears.

The legionnaires stood on guard for a moment, wary of tricks but the dying Orks allowed a cheer to erupt from them, swords upraised and chests beaten by armoured fists.

 _It was over. The signal had been sent. It had been sent!_

* * *

 **Day 29**

It took two days for the _zadyin arga_ to awaken, their bodies having gone into a deep sleep to recover from their exhaustive ordeal. A hundred Scars stood guard, partly as protectors, and partly as executioners if the men who woke were not the same as those that had drifted to sleep. Thirteen Stormseers had fallen asleep, but only ten rose whole in spirit and mind. Three faced internal struggle and were given the Emperor's Peace.

Yesugei was one of those that awoken, and he felt tired, drained and spent, but content.

"Did it work?" asked Jemulan, he stood in front the Stormseers, his armour blackened and dirtied from combat.

"Yes. The flare has been lit, shown to all who could see. We can only hope someone noticed it and comes to discover its nature."

Jemulan grunted. "The best we could have hoped for."

Yesugei titled his head in agreement.

The Stormseer straightened before his commander, steadying himself on rock. "How many Orks are left?"

Jemulan's frown deepened. "All within fifty kilometres of here were killed by the pulse, but there are still some thousands more."

Jemulan turned to look over the recovering legionnaires. What he saw filled him with satisfaction at their resilience.

"And we will kill them all."

* * *

 **Day 337**

The sun rose over Chondax, a red, rising tumour breaking the horizon as it moved upwards.

Haren watched the ball of fusion for hours, the temperature rapidly rising. His spirit was tainted with melancholically, his body and soul weary from the three hundred and thirty-seven days of hell. It was nearing a year since the Purge, and the surviving Space Marines numbered barely a third of what they once had been when they descended to the surface in what was thought would be the last battle for the planet.

Since the psychic pulse sent into the Immaterium, the Astartes had combed through the caverns, killing what few xenos remained. The last significant Ork threat had been eliminated three months ago. Now there were few, if any, left alive, and they cowered from the superior legionnaires.

A gauntlet rested on his shoulder. Turning, he nodded to his second, Sanco.

The fourteen Astartes ushered across Chondax's broken surface, traversing thirty kilometres in two hours of semi-rough terrain. They eventually came to a chasm: their entry point. Descending into the earth, they climbed downwards; using combat blades to arrest their fall, the journey took another half-hour before they reached ground.

Once all fourteen descended they ran quickly towards base, reaching Sanctuary soon after. Arriving amidst frantic activity, he noticed something different. The atmosphere was charged, electric, but not from any generator or warp power. Haren saw Hasar racing across the vast cavern. Rushing to him, he grabbed the psyker's arm.

"What is happening? Why was I called back from my recon mission?" he asked.

"Six hours ago several ships entered the system."

"Orks?" he demanded, alarmed.

"No, Imperial. We have made vox contact. Sixteenth Legion, Sons of Horus." Hasar stopped, a smile rising upon his weary face. "Haren, help has arrived."

* * *

 **Day 338**

It took nearly twenty-four hours for the XVI squadron of warships to enter Chondax's high orbit. Captain Tybalt Marr of the Eighteenth Company, Sons of Horus Legion, led the entirety of his company's dropship contingent to the black surface of the planet below. Landing at the pre-arranged coordinates, he walked down the ramp to an impressive sight.

Three thousand Space Marines stood before him, their armour and weaponry broken, their livery and Legion colours all but gone, their armour a streaked greyish-black mess. Hundreds looked on the verge of death, most impoverished as their bodies had been recycling the same waste for most of a year to keep their body in some form of functioning shape. Several stood in the front, obviously the commanders. The moved to him and he to them.

Removing his helm, the others following suit, the sea-green and black armoured Astartes looked at them, watching as they stood there bodies half-broken, but wills strong as iron. Marr recognized the grizzled veteran at the fore.

Saluting, he inclined his head respectfully. "Jemulan Noyan-Khan, it is good to see you alive."

"It is good to see you as well, Captain Marr, but I am no longer Noyan-Khan for that was my name as a White Scar, a brotherhood I am no longer a part of. We dropped our Chogorian names and traditions many months ago." Jemulan looked towards his brothers. "We have left behind our names that once we carried while serving the Warhawk. No longer am I known as Jemulan Noyan-Khan of the Horde of the Earth, but Commander Rel Felsar. These beside me were once known as Stormseer Targutai Yesugei and Torghun Khan, now called Chief Librarian Arghun Hasar and Captain Haren Svensellen. We are no longer White Scars, nor even Fifth Legion. We are Sagyar Mazan, the broken brotherhood, the suicide sons. We will join the greater war. We will not stop until the Arch-Traitor is dead. We will not stop until the Fifth Primarch's skull lies before the Golden Throne!" The last brought throaty cheers from the former Scars.

Marr nodded at that in admiration.

"That is good, Commander Felsar. I have orders from my primarch to bring you into the Imperial fold, to help us fight back at the traitors. It took many months to get here, months longer than expected, but now we can re-join the war."

"Is this squadron all you've brought from Terra?" asked Captain Svensellen, hesitantly.

Marr shook his head minutely. "This is but a scouting element. The Warmaster has dispatched most of the XVI to fight the traitors. He remains on the Throneworld to coordinate the war effort, with an honour guard and a strategic reserve."

Haren nodded at that, contented.

"Now," gestured Marr, "let us leave this rock."

The Sagyar Mazan needed no further encouragement, quickly filling the assembled dropships' empty holds. Over ten thousand White Scars loyalists were sent to be purged; now only three thousand one hundred and sixty-two survived, now styling themselves the Sagyar Mazan. But those survivors were ready to fight the traitors, but more importantly ready to fight for the Emperor against their father and brothers.


	11. Warmaster

**Warmaster**

Clocks struck midnight, bells Palace-wide rung deep and heavy. The metallic ringing echoed through majestic and rich hallways, corridors, chambers, gardens, courtyards and more. In a room deep in the Inner Palace, not more than five kilometres from the Throne Room, was a vast chamber lined with advanced cogitators, pict-screens and vox-casters. The vast amount of incoming information and dispatched orders of a galaxy at war was supported by fifty data-looms a half-kilometre beneath the chamber's marbled floor. The occupants ranged from tech-priests that supervised data-watchers, cogitator-operators and technologians, while Imperial Army and Space Marine officers pored over the battle reports and casualty lists. In its centre a fifteen metre hololithic map of the galaxy hovered, slowly spinning. Blue stood for Imperial forces, crimson for traitor, yellow for battles in progress, orange for secessionists, white for unknown allegiance, and grey for unexplored space.

The chamber was known as the Strategium Imperialis, and it was where the Imperium's military commander directed the war against the War Commander. The reinforced adamantium doors hissed open to admit three primarchs, followed by several of their progeny. Hundreds of men and women stood in respect, all that were in attendance. The demigods paused at the overview dais.

Horus Lupercal, Sixteenth Primarch, First Found, Favoured Son of the Emperor, and Warmaster of the Imperium, stood tall, strong, the epitome of strength and charisma given flesh.

His eyes were grey, flecks of blue and green amidst them, his noble face sculpted as if from stone. To his right stood Rogal Dorn, the Seventh Primarch, the Stoic Son, Fist of the Emperor, the Vigilant, and Emperor's Praetorian. Resplendent in his golden armour, Dorn folded his arms as he studied the holo-map.

To Horus' left stood the Fourteenth Primarch, the Reaper, Death Lord of Barbarus, Mortarion. The intricately designed rebreather, gifted to him by the Emperor on their first meeting, sighed quietly as the primarch breathed in and out. His manreaper _Perseverance_ ever at hand, as were two Deathshroud who stood forty-nine paces away, watchful for assassins and threats, as were the Luperci bodyguards of Horus and the Huscarls of Dorn. The Night of Silent Knives had shown that the Arch-Traitor had supporters in the Palace itself, and the safety of the three Loyal Primarchs could not be risked.

The Warmaster glanced at the map, noting the changes since yesterday. In the twelve hours he had been gone from the Strategium, the situation had worsened, with few exceptions. The war was barely six months old, but it had caused far more damage to his father's empire than the previous two hundred years of crusading combined had done.

Flexing the Talon-carrying hand, he cleared his throat. All eyes were on him, awaiting his command.

"Let us begin."

The sounds of bodies seating, chairs scrapping, voices murmuring, and hums of energy increasing occurred in that moment. The three primarchs, their attendants and messengers ready for commands, prepared for another long day of organising and directing the galactic-wide civil war.

* * *

Twelve hours passed in the Strategium. Orders were sent, new information received from the City of Sight and Terran Command, forcing certain orders to be edited then sent again. Battlegroups were ordered from one sector to another, Army divisions ordered to advance, retreat or hold in a thousand star systems and Space Marine forces sent on strikes against traitor forces.

Horus took note of the information that Perturabo had secured Olympia from rebels, and was recalling available Fourth Legion assets to assemble a mighty war-fleet in his home system. The Warmaster quickly read his brother's communiqué, nodding as he finished. Glancing at the messenger, he spoke, "Tell my brother that I have received his message and agree with its contents. He may proceed as he sees fit."

The grey-clad mortal bowed and left to take the message to the City of Sight. Reports of the day filled the Warmaster's mind, sifting through what was more important over what was less.

Sanguinius had arrived to Baal Secundus, taking on new legionnaires and doing quick repairs to the Ninth Legion fleet, repairing some of the damage suffered over Bellanor IV. Russ continued to track Magnus, heading towards the galactic rim, though trusted spies in Fulgrim's ranks reported that hundreds of Fifteenth Legion Astartes were in the 28th Expeditionary Fleet and that nightmares of a one-eyed red giant haunted the dreams of many mortals. Communicating with Russ was all but impossible as increasing warp storms made long range astropathic communication an arduous task to even attempt.

Contact with Guilliman's Realm had been lost. The last known information was that the Iron Hands and Word Bearers were laying waste to Ultramar, billions dead already and Guilliman on the defensive throughout the Five Hundred Worlds. Lion El'Jonson had informed Terra that he was aware of the Heresy, but could not disengage from the Shield Worlds Campaign, his Legion mired in combat on a half-hundred worlds. The First Primarch stated he would finish the war there and make way to the Throneworld as soon as was feasible.

Isolated reports detailed Jaghatai and his Scars running amok among undefended worlds, enslaving millions and butchering the rest. The loss of the Warhawk was a blow to the Imperium and a personal affront to Horus. He was bitter over their last conversation and had wanted to right the wrongs spoken there, but his pride and duties interfered with the apology he meant to give Jaghatai. With the Khan standing beside the Phoenix in treachery, that apology would never happen. The Fifth was no longer a friend of his, but an enemy to be despised. Though most of the Khan's actions were against unimportant worlds, several battles were over supply depots, muster points and shipyards. Where the Warhawk ventured, only death and smoking ruins was left behind.

Night Lord terror-fleets plagued the Imperium, forcing hundreds of worlds to switch allegiance out of fear. Those that did not were ruthlessly put to the death, as was the case with Murdock. With the Murder as an example, countless billions flocked to the Phoenician, uncaring that they were now rebels, their only thoughts were of their immediate safety. Curze and many of his legionnaires spearheaded the traitor advance, softening up worlds for the main traitor offensive to arrive, or ensuring chaos reigned on worlds deigned to be conquered by the Arch-Betrayer.

Angron's World Eaters guarded the flanks of principal offensives, ensuring none could stop the drive towards Terra. The Red Angel broke Imperial counter-attack after Imperial counter-attack, surging forward to take advantage of overstretched loyalist forces. Raven Guard contingents had been seen fighting beside the World Eaters, which directly contradicted other reports where the Nineteenth Legion struck from the dark against the rebellion, assassinating traitor officers and disrupting their supply lines. Though it was clear Corax fought for the Emperor, establishing contact was all but impossible. The Ravenlord refused to answer hails from Horus, rather willing to fight the war his way.

Jaw clenched in frustration, the Warmaster turned his attention to the mini-hololithic of the Sol System's edge near Pluto, where the Death Guard survivors from Bellanor were being monitored and interrogated, searching for possible traitors hiding in their midst. Already nineteen had been earmarked as Typhon followers. The Death Lord's manreaper was soon to execute them all.

The Salamanders were also in the system, but not monitored or interrogated to the degree the XIV legionnaires were experiencing. Vulkan lay in the Emperor's laboratories, recovering from wounds suffered at the Massacre. It would be days until the Lord of Drakes was ready to walk. The wounds suffered during the Exodus would have killed a primarch, but Vulkan was projected to make a full recovery. When Horus asked his father how could Vulkan not only survive but recover, the Emperor had gone silent and responded, _"Every one of my sons inherited gifts of mine. Vulkan inherited a rare one."_

Shaking his head at his father's mysteries, Horus turned his attention back to the galaxy map.

The Alpha Legion was seen to be everywhere, yet none knew where Alpharius was. His location unknown, intercepted orders cryptic at best, and Hydra legionnaires were toppling world governments across all five Segmentums, crippling Imperial industry and sowing destabilisation. A thousand pinpricks, but even a pinprick draws blood.

When the bells began to ring signalling noon, Horus, Dorn and Mortarion left the Strategium. A dozen legionnaire officers remained behind to organise and prioritise the endless reports for the next day's cycle. The primarchs departed for the midday meal. They ate, making small talk, discussing various topics, but it came around to the war, it always did. They were made for war, forged for it, designed to lead it, to wage it. This war would be their test, their crucible. The Imperium of Man would never know peace. If Fulgrim were to die tomorrow, his betrayal would echo through the ages, forever tainting Mankind's Manifest Destiny and the creatures that fought beside Fulgrim were whispered as daemons, revealing the Imperial Truth to be a lie, or at best a false truth.

As the meal was finished, taken away by a liveried Palace servant, Horus looked at his two brothers. They knew what he was thinking; he had pondered it for weeks now. But a decision must be made now.

"As today showed, our efforts to stop Fulgrim are not enough. I will authorise the deployment of the Sixteenth Legion to the frontlines."

Mortarion nodded gravely, Dorn's face seeming not to register the words but Horus knew better.

The Praetorian spoke, "When will you let them know?"

Horus sipped his wine before answering. "Tonight."

* * *

Garviel Loken, Captain of the Sixteenth Legion's Tenth Company and member of the Mournival, looked out over new moon, the slight silver-white crescent giving some light to the courtyard. His genhanced eyes allowed him to easily see despite the darkness. His eyes roamed the simplistic courtyard, known as Court of the Wolf. Loken had not been an officer then, only a legionnaire, but he knew the tale.

This was where the Eleventh Primarch was brought to; this is where he became lost to all. If Loken had been there that day, he would have wept. Was the removal of the Second and Eleventh a sign of things to come?

 _We will never know._

Shaking off his melancholy, the Son of Horus heard footsteps clad in ceramite approaching. Tarik Torgaddon walked into the Court. The two exchanged pleasantries until they heard two others approach.

First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon and Captain Horus Aximand, the other two of the Mournival, joined their brothers.

"Why have we been summoned?" asked Little Horus.

"The primarch wishes to tell us something, I suspect," Tarik quipped.

As Aximand and Torgaddon went back and forth in friendly jabs, Loken glanced at Abaddon. The First Captain's armour was different than theirs, signalling his leadership of the Justaerin; black versus the Cthonian sea green with black trim.

Before conversation could start between he and Abaddon, another joined their presence.

"My sons," murmured Horus Lupercal.

The four Mournival members turned towards the voice and bowed their heads, fist brought to chestplate in salute.

The Warmaster moved towards them.

"My sons," he repeated, "today will be a day marked in history."

"Why is that, Lupercal?" asked Torgaddon.

"Because this is the day the Sons of Horus joined the war directly."

The air became electric. Loken saw Tarik tilt his head, pondering. Aximand nodded as if he expected this, while Abaddon looked… content, relieved almost.

"It is time the XVI joined the frontlines, time that we took the war to the Arch-Betrayer. You will be my wrath, the sharp edge of my blade. You four will lead the Sons in the battles to come."

"We? But what of you, my lord?" asked Abaddon, face contorted in confusion and, if Loken read his brother right, worry.

"I will remain here, directing the war effort. My duties as Warmaster require me to stay."

"But Lord Dorn-"

"My brother has to focus on fortifying Terra," the primarch's voice was sharp, but his face softened and he spoke again, not unkindly. "Do not mistake me, Ezekyle, I wish that I could abandon this politicking, the endless administration, the waiting. But I cannot. I am not just Primarch of the Sons of Horus, but Warmaster of the Imperium. My responsibilities of the two do not supersede the other; I must strike a balance between them."

The Warmaster looked over them all, judging, calculating.

"Now," he began, "let us talk of your orders."

* * *

Less than an hour had passed, but much was discussed. Data-slates were given from father to sons, orders expanded in depth there as well as administrative details, Astartes numbers and more; everything necessary to wage a campaign.

Lupercal dismissed them, knowing that the next few days would be very busy for them as the preparations to deploy began. Loken remained behind. He watched the primarch's back, not knowing how to approach the subject.

"Garviel, come forth. We will speak of your unease."

The Space Marine complied, standing beside his father, neither looking at the other.

A moment of silence passed before Loken had to utter, "Why?"

The primarch was silent for a moment.

"Ezekyle is proud, loyal, brave, doubtless in his convictions, and an excellent commander on the battlefield. Wherever my First Captain fights, I expect the enemy to shake in fear. He is my aggression, my fury.

"Tarik is a charmer, a jokester. But underneath that he is inspirational, bundling my charisma and humour to act as an excellent mediator. He is my connection to the inner thoughts, hopes and dreams that reside in the hearts and minds of the Legion.

"Little Horus is a vaunted commander, beloved by the men, and does the necessary when called for. He is the mirror of me, my son in blood and manner."

Horus turned to Loken.

"But you are the most unique of the Mournival in many ways, perhaps it is because you are the newest inductee. You voice unpopular opinions, you stand by your beliefs, and will not do what is easiest or simple, but you do what is _right_. You see not the next step, nor the one after, but several in advance. You are methodical, cautious, the one who is not afraid to speak his mind, no matter if it clashes with my own. In an older age, you would have been known as the 'devil's advocate.'"

The Warmaster rested a hand on Loken's shoulder, warm, fatherly, kind. "I have never properly thanked you for saving my life."

"My lord, I-" Loken stopped at the primarch's raised hand.

"It was your decision to place me in stasis, it was your decision to go to Terra, it was your decisions that kept me alive long enough for the Emperor to purge the corruption from my body. You convinced the others, and their respect for you has grown."

The Warmaster withdrew his hand. "A commander, much less a primarch, cannot surround himself with yes-men, blind or mindless followers, or those that feel he can do no wrong. Three of the Mournival will leave to fight the traitors, but you will stay for I need you here. You have aspects of the others, their strengths with few of their weaknesses."

Loken bowed his head in acceptance.

"Do not fear, Garviel. You may remain behind on Terra as my advisor, but that does not mean you will be idle. Worlds throughout the Segmentum are in rebellion. Ezekyle, Tarik and Horus will not go there, they have other battles to fight, but you are a Son of Horus, war is your birth-right. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lupercal." And Loken did. His belief that had fostered during the briefing that he was unworthy to join the others had vanished. The rest of the Mournival may cross blades with the Arch-Traitor's armies, but Loken would remain to ready Terra for when the war comes to it. He would stand by the primarch's side, acting as his devil's advocate, and fight the battles no others would.

"Good," spoke the First Found. "Now let's go, there is still much to do."

* * *

Ten days later the bulk of the Sons of Horus left Sol, broken into several taskforces and fleets. First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon departed with fifty thousand legionnaires, Captain Tarik Torgaddon and Captain Horus Aximand with forty thousand apiece. Five thousand legionnaires were sent to Cthonia to ready the Legion homeworld for war, quieting the endless gang warfare, and arming the populace. When Fulgrim would assault Terra, he would first have to take Cthonia. What would remain in Sol would be twenty-five thousand Astartes held in reserve, commanded by Captain Garviel Loken, and the Warmaster's five hundred strong Luperci bodyguard.

Though the primarch would rarely leave Terra as the demands of war forced him to coordinate the loyalist military might, his sons would fight across the Imperium, bleeding the traitors as they moved inexorably to the Throneworld. Many victories would be won, many defeats suffered, but nonetheless the Sons of Horus brought their unquenched fury to the War Commander's forces as the war entered its next stage.


	12. Perfection Marred

**Perfection Marred**

Gaeis Henohn, shipmaster of the heavy cruiser _Righteous Elegance,_ watched his ship's primary view-screen as the Third Legion warship moved deeper into the Chemos Star System asteroid field, the Kyklos Belt. Flanking it were two destroyers, the _Ediphon_ and _Bright Star_. The small squadron had been in the Belt for weeks now, searching for the loyalists that had escaped the Feast of Rebirth. Some had escaped Chemos and were able to get on a warp-capable starship, but these loyalists managed only to board an intra-system cargo hauler. His squadron was only one of many combing through Kyklos, the primarch's standing orders were to find and eliminate them.

Henohn wished to be in the wider war, fighting beside the main fleets, the ones conquering in the War Commander's name. It was an honour, he thought, to be assigned to the Chemosian Defence Fleet. But the Fulgrimian Heresy, as many on both sides were calling it, neared four months old since its inception at the Dropsite Massacre, and the most exciting event in that time for Henohn had been rest and recovery on Chemos. The pleasure he experienced at Callax's primary officer's brothel had been… exquisite.

"Shipmaster, charge ready," spoke his weapons' officer.

Clearing his mind with a slight shake, he stood straighter in his command throne.

"Very well, fire."

From one of _Righteous Elegance_ 's torpedo tubes, an enlarged explosive charge was fired towards wide crevice in a large asteroid. It was large enough for the small hijacked hauler to hide in. The charge went in and detonated.

Not strong enough to break apart the asteroid, but powerful enough to destroy whatever lay in the crevice. Small rock fragments flew to the three warships, their void-shields disintegrating them on impact.

"Report," he ordered, though he could not help the tone of boredom that seeped in. Luckily the Astartes on board were not on the bridge. Lieutenant Commander Nyphen was not one to shirk his duty, or those that he commanded, and boredom was akin to shirking in the legionnaire's mind-set.

"Scanning… scanning… Asteroid B3-774U is void of enemy presence. No clear wreckage."

"Well, that's disappointing." Running a hand through his thinning hair, he shrugged. "Proceed to the next tar-"

"Contact, contact! Ship detected, six hundred kilometres ahead, fleeing, point of origin Asteroid B3-667E."

"One of ours?" If it was, Henohn would chew out the officer stupid enough to be in his sector.

"Negative. Classification: intra-system cargo hauler, name: _Daeinata_."

"That's her," he whispered. Chuckling, thinking about the reward he would receive, the shipmaster opened a link to the legionnaires.

"Lord Nyphen, we have found them."

The response was immediate. "Acknowledged. We will deploy soon."

"My lord, wouldn't it be better to destroy them from a distance."

The legionnaire's voice dripped with malice, "Silence, mortal, this is Legion business. Mind your tongue."

Sweat budded on his face, his mouth became dry at the thought of provoking the Astartes. "Of course, my lord, apologies." At least he did not stutter, he knew how to talk to them.

A grunt was the response.

"I am sending you the data now," Henohn said, nodding to second who quickly transmitted the necessary information to the lieutenant commander.

Within moments five Thunderhawks, filled with the entirety of the Twenty-Ninth Millennial's Sixteenth Company, left _Righteous Elegance_ 's hangar bay. One hundred Space Marines to personally fight and kill those that defied their gene-sire. Intelligence reported the loyalists on that hauler numbered no more than forty, at best. Accompanying the dropships were two squadrons of void interceptors, to hunt down any escape pods or dropship from the hauler.

Within moments the Sons of Fulgrim neared the hauler, forcibly boarding it with melta-charges. Henohn knew the legionnaires would be going for the bridge and the engine room, securing both would secure the ship.

"Sir?" spoke his vox-officer, shock and panic entering her voice.

"Yes?" he asked, curiously.

"We have been boarded, Deck C7."

Henohn bolted his feet. "What?!"

"We have been boarded, sir; internal scans report at least thirty Space Marines are engaging the crew. They are slaughtering them," she sounded scared, as well she should.

"How did they get aboard?" he demanded, sitting back down.

"Our shields were lowered for several minutes for the dropships and interceptors. Perhaps they attached to the hull before they were raised again."

"A ship would have been detected."

"Aye, but not power armour," argued his tactical officer, "Those are void-sealed and we passed by a medium sized asteroid. It is not inconceivable that they went from asteroid to ship via thrusters taken from the hauler."

Henohn shook his head angrily. "Contact Lieutenant Commander Nyphen, we need him here-"

The hauler exploded, detonations coming from within. The Thunderhawks were caught in the blastwave, as were several of the fighters, becoming nothing more than cosmic dust. Henohn slumped in his throne, his one hope vanished.

He listened to his officers as they reported the crises overtaking the ship. Ship-to-ship vox was being jammed, likely by a Techmarine. Riot suppression security teams and anti-boarding ship defence squads rushed to stop the boarders, but they might as well have been fleas to a lion. The engine room was lost, the last transmission from the tech-priest cut short by the buzzing whirr of a chain weapon. Soon after the armouries and hangar bay fell. Henohn eventually turned off the vox. The screams were too much. Eventually, they came for the bridge. The thud of heavy figures rapped outside, a musician of death playing the tune of revenge.

The door exploded, molten metal dripping to the deck as a dozen figures entered in Legion colours. One bridge crewmember raised a laspistol but was punched by a viper-fast legionnaire, caving in the crewmember's chest. The officer flew across the bridge to impact the wall, sliding down leaving crimson smears behind. There he lay in a growing pool of his own blood, breathing erratic, wheezing, and failing. No others moved in defiance, all knew they could not resist.

These were no Sons of Fulgrim, but Emperor's Children. The Palatine Aquila, not the Chemosian Phoenix, rested upon their breastplate showcasing their allegiance. The Astartes secured the command deck, making sure none would sabotage at the last moment.

One, bearing the markings of captain, moved to him. Red eye lenses looked down upon Henohn. He saw himself reflected in them, and felt insignificant beneath that hateful gaze.

"Shipmaster, open fire on the two destroyers."

"I… I can't…. that's treason."

"A traitor, not wanting to commit treason, refuses to betray betrayers. How ironic." The officer pulled his bolt pistol from his mag-lock. "Fire on the other ships now or face the consequences."

Henohn sunk further into his throne, eyes fearfully watching the pistol. "I cannot. They'll… they'll kill me if I do."

The Space Marine knelt onto the plasteel floor. "If you do not, _I_ will kill you."

Henohn glanced at the pistol again, shaking in fear. The sweat from earlier returning, much multiplied.

"Fi- Fire at… the enemy ships," he said weakly.

The legionnaire nodded and rose.

The _Righteous Elegance_ fired against its two escorts, who had closed in for assistance, not realising their squadron flagship had been taken over by loyalists. The outcome wasn't in question when the heavy cruiser unleashed its awesome arsenal. Within twenty minutes both destroyers drifted in Kyklos Belt, no more than shattered wreckage and flickering fires.

With the escorts destroyed, Henohn saw a half dozen Stormbirds emerge from a crevice in another asteroid, heading towards his ship. When the Stormbirds landed, he watched the pict-feed built into his throne and witnessed hundreds more Emperor's Children emerging from them.

 _No more than forty, my arse,_ he thought darkly.

Another officer, another captain, soon joined the other on the bridge.

They conversed through the vox, or so he assumed, nothing was said through the external speakers. Eventually they motioned for the crew to leave.

"What are you going to do to us?" he asked them.

They did not deign to respond, merely shepherding them to an empty cargo hold several decks below, pushing them in and locking them up. It was not the entire crew, as that numbered in the thousands, but the command crew and officers and ranking non-coms that could potentially incite rebellion amongst the crew were interred. The Mechanicum priest and his acolytes were nowhere to be seen. Henohn assumed they were dead.

Many of the crew prayed, many to the primarch and the Dark Gods, some though were to the Emperor. Henohn knew he should stop that, but found he could not. No matter if the ship was somehow retaken by the Sons of Fulgrim, he had lost, life forfeit the minute the loyalists had secured his vessel. Slumping against the wall, hot streams of salty tears dripping from his face, the former commander of the _Righteous Elegance_ wept like a child.

* * *

Hellionna and Apillia, the twin suns that warmed Chemos and gave the twilight world what little light it received, disappeared as the captured heavy cruiser entered the warp via an outlying Mandeville point. The ship ached and sighed, but no more than usual. The four Techmarines that still called themselves Children of the Emperor monitored the engine, both plasma and warp.

Solomon Demeter, former Captain of the First Millennial's Second Company, frowned as the ship soared through the Immaterium. The Navigator proclaimed loyalty to the Throne. The validity of that would be discerned when they reached Terra. Thinking of the Throneworld drew his thoughts to the folded tattered Imperial Aquila flag that resided inside his Mark IV Maximus-pattern armour. It was one of two that his company fielded, the other being the Legion's.

When the Feast quickly turned to butchery, he had burned the Legion flag, carrying the Aquila flag proudly as he rallied his like-minded brothers to secure several dropships for escape. Now… now he carried it as a reminder. Of what once was, of what was, and what may be. The dream of Unity died that day, replaced by fratricide and civil war, and the future was uncertain. Tapping his chestplate, beneath which rested the flag; he resonated with it, affirming himself to its ideals and hopes. It was a link to a better time, a more proud time of glory and conquest.

Now it resembled the light in the dark, the shield against madness. It was all he had anymore.

" _Brother,"_ voxed Saul Tarvitz, Captain of the Fourth Millennial's Tenth Company _. "The regalia and banners of the Arch-Betrayer have been burned, as per orders."_

"Good."

" _How long is the journey to take?"_

Demeter thought back to his discussion of the Navigator before he locked himself away in his protective chamber for the duration of warp travel.

"Four to five months, possibly longer depending on if there are any storms or difficult tides."

" _Copy, Solomon. I will lead the deck patrols, to make sure any mutation or taint is taken care of."_

"Very well, Saul. Good hunting."

Ending the link, he looked at the void-screens and thick plexiglass windows. Blank and covered to prevent the miasma of colours that was the Immaterium from driving an individual to insanity and damnation. The Emperor's Children destination lingered in his mind.

To Terra. To the Emperor. To judgment.

* * *

When the _Righteous Elegance_ emerged from the warp into real-space it discovered nearly seven months had passed. It found itself on the far edge of the Sol System, centre of the Imperium of Man. Within moments of arrival, hails from Segmentum Solar squadrons assailed the vessel. When identified, the heavy cruiser was very nearly destroyed. Only rapid astropathic communiques from Terra forestalled such actions.

Within a day a squadron of Imperial Fist warships arrived from Saturn, led by a battle-barge, and escorted the Third Legion cruiser further in-system. It was not an escort of honour, but of caution. Torpedoes were readied; laser clusters, lance weaponry, macrocannons, plasma cannons and more were aimed at the _Righteous Elegance_ , ready to destroy it within moments at the slightest sign of treachery.

When in orbit over Luna, three companies of Sons of Horus boarded it, led by Captain Garviel Loken, and moved swiftly to key capture points. They found the mortal crew imprisoned, the Astartes bearing the colours but not symbol of the Arch-Traitor's own Legion were standing in the hangar bay and bridge, weapons stored in armouries and no threatening moves dared made.

When the ship was secured, the prison holds were emptied of mortal crew, taken to the Outer System by means of a stark grey coloured ship. There, at a secured locale, the crew would be interrogated for information concerning Chemos, the War Commander, or anything else relating to the Traitor Legions, ranging from number of ships, Traitor Army divisions and more.

Much was outdated and old useless information, but nuggets of worth were wormed out of them, whether they wanted it to or not. The crew would die in its entirety during and after the interrogations, their bodies burned in the furnaces of shipyard construction.

The Space Marines experienced a similar fate. Interred under guard inside the Somnus Citadel on Luna, the Emperor's Children were screened by Sisters of Silence, a combined taskforce of Son of Horus, Imperial Fist and Iron Warrior Librarians, and inquisitive agents bearing the sigil of Malcador. Those that bore signs of mental, spiritual or physical corruption by Chaos were taken away, never to be seen again. Their brothers accepted this, knowing not all could escape their primogenitor's black legacy. Two hundred and forty-seven Children became two hundred and thirty-nine; all declared true Children of the Emperor by unanimous consent by all investigative parties, loyal in body, mind and soul.

* * *

A month after arriving to Terra Solomon Demeter, escorted by ten golden plated Custodes, walked down the Hall of Leng. He knew the significance of this place, residence of the Emperor. A non-formal place when compared to the impressive and daunting Throne Room.

Turning into one of the many chambers of the Hall, Demeter was gestured in. He complied with the subtle order, as if he had a choice, the Custodes following suit. Demeter knew he was to meet, but the presence of the being before him was as heavy as a world, as impressive as a clear night sky and momentous. The Master of Mankind, Saviour of Humanity, the Emperor, sat back straight against the pearl white marble throne. His face was not unkind but nor was it harsh. It was lined, but not with age but with wisdom and assuredness. For all of Fulgrim's attempts at attaining perfection, compared to his father he was but a poor copy of what truly was perfect in the universe. Ever the emulator, not the actual.

Before he knew what he was doing, Demeter knelt in subservience to his bastard father's creator.

"Rise." The timbre voice of the Emperor was deep, but not overly so.

Complying with the order, head still bowed, he waited for judgment.

"Look at me."

Doing so was difficult; such was the majesty and raw power emanating from Him.

The Emperor's stare was like a sword, sharp and focused.

Demeter's mind could not function correctly, his rehearsed words halting in his mouth, unable to escape.

"Demeter. In an old era, on where ancient Grekan mythology thrived, the Grekans believed there was a goddess named Demeter. She was the deity of harvest, fertile soil, and growth. How apt that over thirty thousand years later another Demeter would be known to me, but this one a Space Marine of the Legiones Astartes, an officer who remembered old oaths and vows sworn long ago."

The Emperor rose from His throne, moving to Demeter. Demeter's gaze fell to the floor, remembering that looking at the ground before His feet was easier to bear than looking at Him directly.

But He moved to before him.

"You have survived horrid trials, the treachery of kin, and death of Unity, but not all is lost. The traitors near, and we prepare. You refused to become a Son of Fulgrim. Of that you have My gratitude, but no longer are you the Emperor's Children. That name is too associated with the Wayward Son; it would cause others to look upon you with distrust and hate."

The Emperor rested his hand upon Demeter's head. The warmth and crackling energy in the air surged through the legionnaire.

"Kneel."

He dropped instantly, head still bowed. The sound of a sword being drawn echoed in the chamber. A golden-red blade rested on his left shoulder.

"You are not a Son, nor a Child, but a Paladin. You will be here when the Arch-Traitor arrives, and you will defend the weak, fight for the just and defy the hordes of ruin."

The sword moved from shoulder to head back to shoulder.

When finished, the Emperor spoke, "Rise, Imperial Paladin. Become Demeter of the new era."

He did so. Compelled too by himself, he matched gazes with his redeemer. He knew what to say at that moment, coming to him in a burst of clarity he had not had in over a year.

"How may I serve?"

* * *

Saul Tarvitz's head continued to ache, a by-product of thorough screening. Though many weeks old, his skull still throbbed, assured by chiurgeons and Apothecaries that the pain would fade in time. He did not much mind the pain; it reminded him he was human, enhanced though he was. And humans were flawed beings, weak in individual ways.

While Solomon was on Terra for talks with the Warmaster, Praetorian and other authorities, he waited on Luna with the other former Third Legion Astartes. Not only the ones that had arrived with him, but those that had escaped on warp-capable starships as the Feast turned into purge, as well as other isolated bands of Emperor's Children that had made it to the Throneworld. Their numbers combined now reached over four hundred, if just barely.

Moving to his quarters, he passed watchful gun-drones, Sisters, and others who still monitored them. He did not blame them for such lingering caution. If eight primarchs could betray their father, their sons would be suspect. It was only logical.

After some time, he arrived to his door. Opening it, he noticed the difference immediately. Standing on an armour rack in the centre of the room was a set of unpainted grey Mark IV armour, lacking any livery or sigils.

Nearing it, he pondered, _what is this?_

"That," spoke a voice from the shadows, "is your future."

Turning quickly, hand on his combat blade, he relaxed when the speaker emerged from the shadows. Clenched hand rose to chestplate in salute. Bowing slightly, he spoke in a respectful tone.

"Lord Regent."


	13. Silence

**Silence**

A vast armada soared through the void, nearing the end of its mission. Spearheaded by the _Red Tear_ , flagship of Primarch Sanguinius of the Blood Angels, the Imperial ships boasted world-destroying battle-barges, fleet-breaking battleships, cruisers of all types, destroyers and frigates. Thousands of void interceptors flew in flight-strong formations, escorting the warships towards the fourth planet of Bellanor. As the ships passed the fifth world, a world of storms and acidic rain, legionnaires of the Blood Angels, Word Bearers, Salamanders, Emperor's Children, World Eaters and Death Guard readied themselves for the battle to come.

Some checked weapons; others sat in meditation, whilst others sat in strategy chambers, looking over Night Lord idiosyncrasies and tactics used during the Great Crusade to better overcome them in combat. While the majority of the legionnaires readied themselves, the primarchs and their inner circles crafted a battle-plan to utterly destroy the murderous Eighth Legion.

Sanguinius, as commander of the Imperial Retribution Armada, spoke to his brothers, stating the importance of what they were about to do. All knew it would the destruction of a Legion, death of a brother, and all knew that what was to come was necessary for Mankind.

Another day passed until the armada entered high orbit over Bellanor IV, their battle-plan created and finalised. Drop-pods were prepped, dropships fuelled and armed, and Mechanicum assets blessed and readied. The Angel gave the order; tens of thousands of Space Marines fell to the world below. The galaxy would never be the same again.

* * *

Gern flexed his wrists as much as he could within Terminator battleplate. A tradition he had carried over from death, thankful that only his mortis brothers were in attendance, allowing him to show an old habit; therefore none would know his tick of old and associate it with the man he had been once.

The heavily modified Storm Eagle shook as it accelerated out of the hangar bay alongside the dozens of other dropships, the larger Stormbirds and Thunderhawks.

"Nervous, brother?" chided Saol in a light hearted manner.

Gern did not look back, but he snorted in his armour, the sound carrying through his external speakers.

"Not nervous, eager in a sense."

"Eager to rest your feet on the ground you mean. You are so lazy," joked Pekel.

Gern smirked at that in his helm, softly chuckling, it a dry rasping sound.

"Focus, brothers," Baen broke in, tone hard. The Deathshroud sergeant looked back at his brothers. "We were left with the Legion to act as the primarch's will. Now we act as his blade that will cut down the traitors, we are his representatives, more so than the others of the Legion. When we land, we will move toward the city's centre, joining up with Blood Angel and World Eater assault elements."

Silence reigned.

"Do you understand?" Baen barked.

"Yes, sergeant," they replied in unison.

"Good." The sergeant turned back to face the lander's door, but cocked his head to the side. "Gern."

"Yes, sir."

"Do try and keep up. Your laziness is appalling."

Laughter broke out between them as their ship surged towards war.

* * *

Jue stood on _Endurance_ 's bridge, immobile, a constant reminder of whom he represented and the authority that came with it. To his right stood Hekl, whose stance was exactly as that of Jue. The two Deathshroud remained behind as their other eight brothers took part in the action on the planet below.

Just as the primarch always had two of their order nearby for protection, there must always be two to protect Mortarion's flagship, whether he was there or not, whether there was war or not.

Shipmaster Ulfar thumbed his fingers against the metal railing encircling his command throne. The rest of the command crew did the monotonous duties to keep the ship in peak performance.

The shipmaster had been in Death Guard service for nearly two hundred years, since the days they were known as the Dusk Raiders. His hair was wispy and white, eyes a steely blue, jaw line protruding from a famished looking face. Wiry, short tempered and spiteful, but one of the best commanders in the Fourteenth Legion armada. His dedication to the Emperor and Mortarion were without question. He even bore the Mark of the Reaper, a hooded skull and scythe across his back, with the Aquila over his heart. But Ulfar was irked, more so than usual.

"Augur, anything?" demanded the shipmaster.

"Nothing, sir," came the quick response.

"Where the bloody hell are they, huh?" The shipmaster shook his head in understandable frustration. "An entire Legion fleet just gone, but where, I wonder? The Night Lords are bastards, but they aren't stupid."

The mortal commander continued his tirade for some moments, but Jue found himself in agreement. The lack of the Eight Legion fleet was notably odd. But even if the Night Lord ships attacked them now, with surprise on their side, there would still be no chance for them to snatch victory. The armada arrayed against them was too vast, too powerful.

Ulfar went silent, but still checked the augur sensors frequently. Hekl opened a channel to him.

"They land, brother."

"Aye, may the primarch's will guide their blades."

From the corner of his vision, he could see the other Astartes nod.

* * *

Gern rushed from the landing fields in cohesion with his mortis brethren. Thousands of Imperial Army soldiers clad in Nostraman livery were cut down, their heavy weapons silenced and smoking. Dozens of legionnaires were killed; even mortal's weapons would do so such was their calibre.

As he clambered over a destroyed Leman Russ, Gern's manreaper cut down a half-dozen troopers, their flak armour and flesh akin to thin paper when faced against his power scythe.

The rest of the mortis squad fought beside him, killing the mortals with ease. Overhead a Thunderhawk's wing was clipped by anti-air fire and spirally crashed into a granite building, breaking apart as it destroyed the structure.

The AA gun was close, a street over in a tower; he could hear the bang of its guns spewing shells into the air, hoping to hit. Stepping towards its direction, he was stopped by a hand on the shoulder.

"Easy, brother, let the others secure the area," said Baen, motioning towards other XIV Astartes that passed around them, securing tactical locations and silencing enemy AA fire on this flank of the advance. The AA gun was quickly silenced by a contingent of Grave Wardens, their bio-weapons smoking pungent fumes as they advanced, oblivious to the death cries of soldiers whose skins were blistering and melting off their skeletons and eyes turning to liquid jelly as Cullegene gas broke their bodies down on a cellular level.

"We have much ground to cover until our destination," the sergeant continued. "The Night Lords had hoped to slow us down and whittle us away with unmodified soldiers." If he had not been wearing his helm, he likely would have spit in disgust. "But we are not the enemies they have fought before. We are Death Guard, this kind of war is what we were created to fight," Bane gestured towards Rose City, artillery peppering the outer districts as more and more IX and XII drop-pods descended into the inner city. Flames sprouted and smoke rose from the hab-districts where the Salamanders advanced, burning those that defied the Master of Mankind with pity and promethium.

"Come, Gern, we have traitors to kill."

* * *

 _"Do you find it odd?"_

"What aspect? Much has come across odd as of late."

Hekl vox-clicked agreement before continuing.

 _"The First Captain has not joined battle. He allows Grulgor to lead what should be his right by rank."_

"What Typhon does is little concern at the moment, but the primarch will be informed."

 _"Agreed."_

As updates to the ground war was sent to the _Endurance_ , Jue did wonder what Typhon was doing not participating and withholding over thirty thousand Death Guard legionnaires. The Deathshroud were Mortarion's guards, but they were also his eyes and ears.

When the VIII were eliminated, the primarch would be informed of this lack of leadership and battle vigour. It was not befitting a Legion's first captain.

While he contemplated how to phrase the message, he noted that contact with the renegade legionnaires had finally been made.

* * *

The legionnaire was clad in midnight blue armour with lightning streaks throughout. Typical Eight Legion livery, but the human skins and bones hanging from him by wire and chains like trophies disgusted Gern. The Legiones Astartes were supposed to be paragons of Mankind, shining examples of duty and honour, the sword and shield of the Imperium. But the Space Marine before him was no true Astartes, rather a cruel being that fed on sadism and the cry of its victims.

Sidestepping the traitor's chainsword, he cut through both legs, pivoted and impaled the Nostraman in the chest, manreaper humming with killing power.

"You die today, traitor, you and all your foul ilk."

Instead of a rebuttal or a curse, as could be expected, the Night Lord began to laugh.

Frowning, Gern decapitated the traitor, his head bouncing off rubble strewn ground, the helm ocular lenses fading from red to black.

Around him, the Deathshroud finished the traitors they had come across. Eight Night Lords for one mortis brother, fought in a side alley beside an impressive looking museum. Kior would never fight again. The seven survivors surrounded their fallen brother, noting with approval that Kior had died with manreaper in hand, his scythe covered in the blood of rebels.

Baen knelt into the dirt of Bellanor, taking some in hand.

"Kior of the Death Guard, mortis brother of the Deathshroud, has died his second, true death. He died on Bellanor IV, far from Barbarus," Baen marked Kior's helmet with the rich earth of Bellanor. When done, he reached into a sealed compartment of his armour and withdrew black-flecked grey dirt of their homeworld. Some flitted away by the carrying wind, but the rest remained secured.

"Though his true death came about here, he will always be a son of Barbarus and the homeworld will reclaim his spirit, if not body." Baen marked Kior's helm with the Barbaran dirt.

"Born amidst poison, selected to die by the Death Lord's will, reborn to fight again and died in battle on a distant world."

The seven Astartes bowed their heads for a moment, respectful silence for their dead brother.

In the background the sounds of war raged on. Gern heard Mechanicum bulk landers dropping Titans, hundreds of dropships depositing Space Marines and providing covering fire, and the ever ongoing booms of artillery.

Baen raised his head, the moment passed. Without speaking, the seven Death Guard moved towards the city's centre.

* * *

Jue watched via the hololith as Imperial forces encircled and slowly constricted the Night Lords. Most of their mortal auxiliaries were dead, and thousands of their legionnaires were also slain, but loyalist casualties were rising as well. The Night Lords had been holed up on Bellanor IV for many weeks, enough time to fortify to the best of their abilities. He was thankful that they did not have the skill of the Fourth or Seventh Legion, which would have led to a bloodier and longer battle.

He noted the Word Bearers, Emperor's Children, the rest of the World Eaters and Typhon's XIV contingent finalising their pre-launch orbit. Their strike was soon to come.

"Shipmaster," spoke the augur officer, "sir, we have four Thunderhawks from the _Terminus Est_ demanding to board."

Ulfar's clenched his fists. "Do we now? Demand, is it? Do they not know that unauthorised or unnecessary inter-ship travel is frowned upon?" Ulfar trembled with rage.

"They have approval from the First Captain."

"Damn. Damn, damn, damn." A clenched fist hit the armrest with each utterance. "Very well, greenlight their arrival and open the hangar doors. But note my ire in the logs and I will notify the primarch of this."

 _As will I_ , thought Jue.

"Brother, we should see why they have come," he voxed to Hekl.

"Agreed."

"Shipmaster Ulfar, we are going to go see what our new arrivals are doing here," he said through his external speakers.

"Aye, lord, I will monitor from here."

"Acknowledged."

They left the bridge, heading towards the hangar. Questions burned in their minds, alongside annoyance.

* * *

Baen and his men knelt before the primarch. Sanguinius turned to them, his form matching his moniker.

"Lord Sanguinius, we have come to fight beside you to eliminate the Night Haunter."

Despite his armour being dirtied and dented by combat, his sword covered in drying blood, the Angel was magnificent. Beside him stood the red armoured First Captain Raldoron and the golden armoured Azkaellon. Hundreds of legionnaires, officers and battle-brothers, moved through the temporary command centre. Sanguinary Guard Astartes kept a careful eye for any threat to their father. Vox casters were set up, receiving and dispatching orders to the Ninth Legion forces as they moved in for the kill. Coordination with the other Legions was heard too, the Salamanders and Death Guard securing the flanks and enlarging the landing zones for the second wave. Commander Grulgor's voice could be heard amidst the cacophony of voices.

Sanguinius looked at them, golden hair and piercing blue eyes a stark contrast to their dark hair and dark eyes, covered by helm though they were.

"Very well, you may join me. If my brother was here, he would doubtless want to be in the thick of things. Sadly, he is on Terra, but his chosen sons will represent him honourably, I'm sure."

"Aye, Lord Sanguinius, it is what our father would want."

"Then come, fight beside me, fight for Mortarion and the Emperor."

* * *

For over an hour the mortis squad fought beside the Angels of Baal. Night Lord positions were overrun but their numbers and coordination increased the further into Rose City the Imperials advanced. Every street taken, every block secured, every hab-unit cleared left corpses from both sides.

In one such street Gern emptied his bolt pistol, his last clip, into two Night Lords too far for his manreaper, their armour buckling and flesh and bone breaking while viscera stained the ground. From the corner of his vision, he saw a Night Lord drop from an archway, sprinting to where First Captain Raldoron was engaged to two other traitors, his attention focused on them and vulnerable from behind.

Raising his manreaper, Gern heaved it forward. It spiralled through the air, going end over end. It impaled the Night Lord only metres away from Raldoron. The Blood Angel eliminated his two assailants and turned to see a scythe impaled legionnaire near him. Nodding in thanks to Gern, the First Captain moved further down the street where close quarters combat continued to rage.

Retrieving his manreaper, Gern scavenged bolt ammunition from the Nostraman. Resupplied, he moved to join the melee. Over the vox he heard the words spoken by Fulgrim that would come to shape the galaxy.

" _Second wave inbound."_

* * *

As Jue and Hekl neared the hangar bay, Fulgrim's announcement of the commencement of the second wave reached them.

"At last," he said to Hekl.

"Indeed. They took their time."

The _Endurance_ was a Gloriana-class warship, and its size matched its power, resulting in their journey taking over half an hour.

The two arrived to the hangar bay after the four Thunderhawks arrived. From their vantage point several decks up; they saw eighty Death Guard Space Marines arrange themselves in ranks, their left shoulder pad oddly coloured black. Hangar crew moved to refuel the ships. A Mechanicum acolyte moved to the legionnaires. For a moment they seemed to wait, oblivious to the acolyte queries. When vox-chatter from the surface suddenly increased, they demeanour of the legionnaires changed.

The ranking officer, a lieutenant, raised his bolt pistol and fired, killing the acolyte.

Hekl and Jue froze at that, frozen by momentary shock. The other XIV Space Marines started to kill all in the hangar, spreading out to secure the area. Over the vox, they could hear Ulfar asking what was going on, while from the surface reports of the first wave being massacred by those of the second assailed the vox network.

"Traitors…" he breathed.

"Amidst our own…" hissed Hekl.

"We must defend this ship," he stated bluntly.

"We cannot fight them all. We are only two against eight squads. What do we do?"

Jue's thoughts raced. Hekl was no coward, but a realist. If the full mortis squad had been here, there would have been a chance to somehow stop them, but two, even Deathshroud, against eighty fully armed Astartes would be their death, needless and wasted. Jue knew what they had to do, the Deathshroud had many contingencies involving the flagship, and a boarding attack party with a numerical advantage was one of them.

"Protocol Seventeen."

Hekl looked at him in surprise, but his stance softened. "It is the only chance we have."

Jue nodded, opening a link to Ulfar. "Shipmaster, the enemy is our own brethren, traitors to the primarch. They number eighty. We are initiating Protocol Seventeen." Jue paused, knowing he sentenced Ulfar to die, alongside any loyalist on the ship. "Good luck, shipmaster."

He cut the link, deigning to use encoded hand-talk, and the two legionnaires left the hangar bay and proceeded deep into _Endurance_ 's underbelly.

* * *

" _Good luck, shipmaster."_ The link was terminated, and Ulfar interlocked his fingers. He, and he alone of the mortal crews and a majority of the XIV, knew what the Protocols were, let alone Protocol Seventeen. Seventeen was only to be activated if the _Endurance_ 's contingent of Astartes had no hope to stop the attacking boarders and that the flagship would fall without a doubt. The Astartes in question would withdraw to the innards of the ship, hiding, and waiting for a chance to strike back when an opportunity presented itself.

Ulfar knew he would die today. Typhon betrayed his father and Legion, for what reasons he could not guess, but the shipmaster knew he would not see another day.

But, he thought with a smirk, that did not mean he would die useless.

"Navigation, take us towards the _Terminus Est_! Weapons, ready torpedoes and energy cannons! Take us in, cripple or destroy any ship that bars our path! We do not have much time, people, so move it! I want void shields powered to maximum, and I want every iota of speed we can manage!"

The bridge became hectic with activity, ratings moving back and forth, officers barking orders to underlings and the hum of the engines increased as they picked up speed, heading towards the Death Guard taskforce centred on the Terminus Est.

The void in between the two warships, and all around as well, was filled with weapons fire and interceptors and bombers. Ulfar saw the void war develop as the situation on the ground reached him. He saw the traitorous Death Guard fight alongside the World Eaters, Emperor's Children, and Word Bearers. Dozens of ships were already destroyed or in their death throes. The escorts were soaking up heavy fire as they covered the capital ships, buying time for them to move into better defensive positions.

From Bellanor V, the world ignored by the armada when they passed it, hundreds of new starships emerged, their Legion IFF transmitting Night Lord ident-codes. It would take many hours but at full speed the VIII warships would arrive and gleefully assist in the killing.

But he would be dead by then, likely killed by the encroaching Astartes that were swarming through his vessel, heading to the engine room and bridge, killing all that stood in their way. Though his men and women were being killed with ease, he felt pride when his ship armsmen communicated that three of the oath breaking transhuman bastards were killed by heavy weapons, but it was not enough.

As the E _ndurance_ soared through Bellanor's high orbit, eight ships that had found themselves in her way were left as smouldering wrecks that fell to fiery deaths onto the planet below. A single battlecruiser, one heavy cruiser, four destroyers and two frigates belonging to the turncoats burned in vengeful fury.

The _Terminus Est_ did not fire, nor did any of the other capital ships nearby. They wanted to capture the ship, not destroy it. Ulfar knew that combating the Terminus Est would take time as ships of their class required crippling firepower to even scathe, but he had to make the effort.

But alas it was not to be so. The bulkhead doors were destroyed in fiery plasma, and a squad of traitor legionnaires entered. They killed the crew with haste, blade and fist doing the work as they did not want to risk the cogitators and other precious electronics. The sergeant approached him, grasping him by the neck. As he choked, Ulfar raised his laspistol and fired, leaving a scorch mark on the helm, barely marring the ceramite. Ulfar was able to shout in defiance, "For Mortarion and the Emperor!" before his neck was snapped and body tossed to the side.

* * *

It had been twelve hours since the massacre began, twelve hours of death and betrayal on a scale so vast it was the first and greatest of its kind experienced by the Legiones Astartes. Sanguinius had led the loyalists in their seizure of the Serenity Spaceport and were now evacuating from Bellanor. The Angel and the Lord of Drakes fought on the frontlines, holding back the tides of traitors, allowing more of their sons and allies to escape. Not all would make it, but they hoped enough would.

Gern and his brothers stood in a shelled out warehouse near the outskirts of the city, far from the spaceport and evacuation. To escape was for others, they had a different mission. He looked at his squad; they stood in tattered cloaks and battle-damaged armour. The morning sun neared the horizon, a red-orange orb beginning to lighten up the sky. It would soon cover the ruined city where the dreams of Mankind had become a withered husk.

As they checked their weapons one final time, Gern thoughts drifted to when the second wave opened fire on the Salamanders and loyal sons of Barbarus. Tens of thousands from both Legions died then, and so did more in the following hours. The Deathshroud squad had fought beside the Angel in the storming of the spaceport, but knew their paths ended there. The First Captain, the chosen of Mortarion, had betrayed everything he had spent over a century fighting and bleeding for.

Such an affront, such a gross betrayal, could not be allowed to go unpunished while they still drew breath. Therefore, they parted ways with the others, saying farewell to brother and cousin alike to come to the edge of Rose City. Not far away lay the traitors' drop zones. It was there that Typhon was located, confirmed by intercepted transmissions.

"Let's go," spoke Baen, the first since leaving Serenity.

The seven legionnaires made their way through the rubble, eliminating only those that could not be avoided. Two Emperor's Children, a Word Bearer and three of their former Legion brothers, easily marked by the black coloured shoulder pad, were eliminated in the hour it took to get to the zone, moving hesitantly as the traitors dominated airspace over the city, minus the spaceport where Imperial fighters made endless sorties to establish some kind of air defence perimeter for the Exodus.

Not long after entering the drop zones they found where Typhon had made his headquarters. Surrounded by his men, the First Captain directed the logistics of the traitor operation, and sending his men as bio-squads, similar to Grave Wardens, to initiate chemical and biological warfare against loyal Space Marines. Typhon surprisingly carried the primarch's foster father's manreaper on his back, _Silence_. Seeing such a relic of the Legion, one to be admired and discussed about but never used as it was the symbol and weapon of a remorseless xenos overlord, crossed a line with them. To carry such a weapon meant you felt you were above Mortarion who refused to bear that scythe of hate, greed and needless death, a weapon that symbolised the alien oppression and exploitation of Barbarus that had lasted for countless generations. To do so was thinking you were superior to the Lord Reaper, better than his noble ideals, and that infuriated his loyal sons.

As the sun rose, like the Dusk Raiders of old, they attacked.

The quickly and brutally created a path to Typhon, cutting down those that stood in their way. As they passed supply caches or vehicles, grenades and melta-charges were thrown, destroying what could be reached. Every rifle, sword and vehicle broken or destroyed was one less to be used in the war that was sure to burn across the stars. It was not much, but the Death Guard were methodical in warfare, bleeding the enemy dry of supplies and manpower was crucial to their unstoppable grinding assaults and it showed as they instinctively threw the grenades and charges.

The seven Deathshroud were each wearing Cataphractii Tactical Dreadnought Armour, gifted to them by the Death Lord himself upon their first death and ascension to their unique brotherhood. They shrugged off rounds that would have killed anyone wearing lesser protection. But the sheer weight of enemies they faced, more coming from other zones, began to take their toll. Pekel took three dozen bolt rounds before he finally fell, dead. Quernser was next, three of the traitors having found his armour's weak spots with their blades. Ty'Nalg was next, followed by Vurn, and finally Saol who died with a curse upon his lips and dead enemies beneath his boots, the way he would have wanted it.

Baen and Gern were all that remained and they neared Typhon, who stood watching as the two Deathshroud moved closer to him, not drawing _Silence_. They were near, but the tide of enemies thickened. They would not reach him.

"Cease."

At the command from the First Captain the other legionnaires withdrew swiftly, creating open space for Typhon and the two manreaper-wielding Space Marines.

"You fight well," complimented Typhon who casually strode towards them. Gern and Baen readied themselves for a charge, expecting their enemy to bring forth Silence, but Typhon raised a hand instead. "You fight well, but you cannot win. You are weak where you must be strong, blinded by falsehoods and misplaced loyalty."

Sickly green energy began to form around Typhon's raised hand. Seeing such sorcery angered and alarmed the two and they began their charge.

"What is strength at arms when compared to power such as this?" Typhon murmured.

The sickly green energy surged towards them, engulfing them in its sickening embrace. The warp power crawled over them, seeping into the cracks of their armour and infecting them via their pores. Tumours and cancers and more began to rapidly grow throughout his body. Gern retched, he could not help it. The vomit covered the inside of his helm, the visor covered and the sound of hissing came from his acid saliva. His genhanced physiology attempted to fight the infection, but it faced something that had originated on a world that was bathed in the Immaterium's damning energies and they were hopeless against it.

As both mortis brothers struggled, their armour turning shades of disease green and deadened black, the First Captain tilted his head. "Interesting, you both appear quite resilient. Most would have died by now, or begged for it." He knelt in front of them, not in respect but as a scientist observing a new hypothesis at work.

Contaminated blood began to drip from his eyes, nose, ears and mouth. Choked struggling revealed Baen was suffering similarly.

Typhon took off their helmets, pressurised air hissed out in polluted gusts. Glancing at the sergeant, he looked as bad Gern felt, but Typhon seemed surprised.

"Very resilient, especially you, Sergeant Baen. That is very interesting indeed." The First Captain withdrew his serrated Barbaran trench knife, covered in exotic poisons. "One dies, and the other will live in my service, for a time at least. Who will it be?" The bareheaded officer looked from both of them. After a moment, he nodded. "Yes, of course." He walked to Gern, blade pushed to his naked throat and slit his jugular. As he felt lifeblood rapidly leave him and body began to shut down and vision darkening from the poisons, Gern heard Baen yell in anger until the sound of armour against flesh reached his ears.

The screaming subsided but did not quit. Baen continued to roar, likely with a broken jaw.

"Take him to the _Terminus Est_. I have much to learn from that one."

Gern watched four legionnaires drag his sergeant away and by the time they reached a Stormbird, his vision had blackened out entirely and the second death welcomed him into its morbid arms.

* * *

"This is it."

Are you sure?"

Jue looked towards Hekl. "Yes."

Jue entered the door's code and it slid open slowly. After entering the chamber, they closed it, the click and clang of the door's locking mechanism echoed softly. There were ten cryo-pods before them, placed here in the deepest and most secluded section of the ship's innards decades ago by servitors who were subsequently terminated to preserve secrecy. Known only to their father and their brotherhood, with Ulfar having an idea but not the actual location, the two bodyguards stripped themselves of armour. It was an arduous and long process without the assistance of bondsmen but still doable with patience and each helping the other.

When finished, they stepped into the cryo-pods, not fearing discovery as the pods ran off a separate power source, undetectable by the ship's sensors. On ship schematics the room simply did not exist and rare was it for even a servitor to come down this far.

"Machine-spirit C04T," Jue said, "Activate cryo-sleep."

The machine-spirit had once been a member of the Deathshroud decades ago before his second death, his brain recovered in time for it to be useful as an advanced hidden machine-spirit slaved to the chamber they now stood in.

"Acknowledged," it said tonelessly from a nearby speaker.

As the pods' hatches began to lower into place, Jue spoke one last time before they sealed.

"Wake us when you need us."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

As of November 21st, 2016, this timeline has been updated. This is the current form (Fulgrimian Heresy 1.1). Various little things have changed alongside grammar improvements. Nothing significant has changed, but the story is a bit easier to read and little things were added or take out here and there. I do recommend a re-read. Enjoy.

-Tanner151


	14. Space Wolves

**Space Wolves – Executioners and Enforcers**

 _"There is a savagery to them, but it is not ignoble. They adorn themselves in animal bones and trinkets, but do not let this barbaric appearance deceive you. They kill, they destroy, but they do so not out of wanton desire for such things, but rather exalting in their loyal service to the Emperor. They know they are not the empire builders of the Ultramarines or the beloved crusaders of the Luna Wolves, but they do not want this, rather they will act as the Emperor's strong right hand and ensure that His Will is followed, no matter the cost."_

-Remembrancer Quentyn Vaun's personal diary, written in the One Hundred and Ninety-Seventh Year of the Great Crusade.

 **Origins-**

Few worlds are as perilous as Fenris. The indomitable forest of Catachan, the poisonous air of Barbarus, and the rad-wastes of Baal Secundus rank high amongst the Imperium's host of Death Worlds, but pale when set against the icy world that would become home to the Emperor's Sixth Son.

Upon arriving to Fenris, the Sixth Primarch's life-pod crashed into the storm-churning ocean, nearly ending his life. But the demigod within was meticulously designed and gene-forged by the Emperor of Mankind and was crafted to survive far worse.

 _The longship bucked as another tentacle latched onto the mast, preventing escape. Thengir cursed as he swung his sword against the taut, writhing flesh but all he was able to accomplish was some spilled blood and torn skin, only angering the beast. The tentacle tightened, causing splinters to scatter about, as another two rose from the ice-water and crashed into the ship, sending a dozen men overboard to their deaths. Thengir swung his blade with all his strength against the bloodied limb, severing it from the body. A roar of hunger and hate spilled from the kraken's mouth, deafening all on board temporarily. More and more of the ship began to break off, filling nearby water with iron and wood, joining the remains of the five ships already destroyed._

 _Thengir roared back in defiance, though his hearing was slow to return. Throat becoming ragged, he rushed another tentacle but a flick from it sent him tumbling to the edge. Catching himself just in time, he hung for dear life over the water, waiting for the kraken to rise and engulf him with its fangs._

 _But it did not. Instead the kraken tentacles withdrew rapidly. Crew members took hold of his arms and dragged him to safety. Their gazes were of shock, and turning around Thengir saw why._

 _A boy stood atop the kraken, jagged iron beam in hand as a makeshift spear. The boy yelled, but it was not weak as to be expected from one so young but strong as the unmoving rockwall of Asaheim. The spear was raised and plunged into one of the kraken's eyes. Blood gushed from the wound and the sea beast wailed in pain. Tentacles reached for the attacker, but he deftly avoided all that neared him, further wounding the kraken with piercings of iron. Rushing to the other side of its head, the boy speared the lone remaining eye, blinding the creature._

 _Krakens were resilient predators and continued to fight, the battle lasting several more minutes, but it was not in doubt any longer. The kraken was dead and began to sink. The boy reached down into its maw and pulled two fangs from its maw. He swam over to the ship, pulled up by amazed deck hands._

 _"Who are you," Thengir asked. No response. "I am King Thengir of the Russ. Who are you, young warrior?"_

 _The boy did not answer, perhaps he did not know how. His long honeyed blond hair hung thickly from his scalp. Frost blue eyes looked at them all. The boy appeared juvenile, but already stood almost as tall as they. They felt a compulsion to submit to the youngling. Though he had appeared to have witnessed far fewer winters than they, he was undoubtedly the alpha, the two kraken teeth, one in each hand, merely encouraged that thought._

 _The storm churned around them, the blood of the kraken being washed by relentless sky water. The men tilted their heads in respect, honouring the boy's strength. Thengir moved to him, raising the warrior's hand in the air and the crew yelled together._

"Hjolda!"

 _Thunder echoed and lighting struck, signalling the arrival of the demigod._

After defeating the kraken, one of Fenris' most dangerous predators, and saving a longship of humans the Sixth Primarch was adopted by their leader, King Thengir of the Russ. As the young demigod settled in among humankind he learned language, customs, traditions and the fortitude of his adopted people.

Those first few years were spent with expansion and supremacy of the Russ Tribe over dozens of rivals that it fought with for control over territory and foodstuffs. However, the primarch felt a lacking within him, his soul urging him to venture out into the wilderness, to embrace his inner wolf.

 _Thengir, King of the Russ, moved towards the oceanfront. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he moved. The sounds of celebration came from behind. The subjugation of the Dagamar Tribe was being celebrated, as was their integration into the Russ. But thoughts of victory were hard to think of at the moment._

 _Nearing the giant of a man, who kneeled untying the docked ship, Thengir looked at his son. Within a few short years they had expanded the tribe's territory and resources but Leman had been distant as of late, bothered by something within. The relative easy cascading of the Worldsea's waves against the rock provided peaceful background noise to counter the raucous clamour coming from behind._

 _"Are you sure, my son?" he spoke. The giant did not turn in surprise; his hearing was far superior and likely heard his approach long before Thengir even saw him._

 _"Yes," came the richly intoned words from Leman. The tall, broad shouldered warrior with long honey blond hair stood near the port, ready to embark on his ship._

 _"Where will you go?" Thengir asks as he moves to his son's side, his body beginning to endlessly ache as the years passed. Hair, once rich brown, now matted grey turning to white._

 _Leman pondered the question for a moment. "I will go where I am needed. I will explore this world, for if we are to unite it, I must first know its heart before the fires of war spread over it and mould it to our vision." Leman looks at Thengir. "I will return, and when I do, we will finish what we started."_

 _"The Great Year nears its end, the journey will be treacherous as the time of fire and water come about."_

 _Leman nodded at this, unworried._

 _"Then fate be with you Leman of the Russ. And come back home."_

What followed after the primarch left his tribe for adventure is described in detail in Gnauril the Elder's saga, The Ascension of the Wolf-King. Such deeds as uprooting a Fenrisian oak tree with his bare hands and breaking it across his knees, visiting hundreds of tribes to know their ways and people, and hunting the most deadly predators of the Death World. Wrestling Great White Bears, to hunting Ice Fiends and more are noted in the chronicle. But the most famous was the kinship forged with the wolves.

On his way home after years of travelling the world Russ' ship became wrecked on a newly formed island. The island, created as a result of the tumultuous end of a Great Year, began to rebuild his ship to return home. But the island was populated by dozens of large Fenrisian Wolves and conflict between the two seemed inevitable as food supplies dwindled. But when the wolves and Russ came face to face, they saw each other as kin rather than enemies. For a time, to better acknowledge and embrace the wolf within him, Russ stayed on the island for most of a Great Year. There he not only gained the trust and kinship of the apex predators, but also became the alpha male of the pack. As the world once again neared the Wolf's Eye, Russ' ship was finished and he left for home, the cargo holds filled with his newfound brothers and sisters.

When he returned to the lands of Russ, he found devastation and ruin. Since the departure of the primarch, his tribe and its allies had come under assault by others wary of the King Thengir's foster son. Their hope was to destroy the Tribe of Russ before the primarch returned but this was dashed when the demigod joined battle alongside his new pack mates. Accompanying them to war were the dozens of wolves brought from the island and fought against the enemies of Russ with feral satisfaction.

As the smoke and sound of war receded, and his tribe stood victorious, the primarch discovered that his father King Thengir had died, dead mere hours before the primarch arrived. This fact would haunt the primarch for the rest of his life, knowing that his father had died when he needed him most and he far away.

For the tribe being saved and wolves fighting beside him, Leman Russ gained the title of Wolf King. Gathering his people, the Wolf King led a crusade across the planet that united all the tribes and established a formal peace. Many were welcomed with open arms, others won with the primarch's charisma, while some were conquered. Within a few years the entirety of Fenris flew the banner of the Wolf King.

With Fenris now united behind the Wolf King, life moved onward past the constant tribal warfare. For a time, Fenris knew peace and prospered as well as it could. Trade boomed and lives improved but Russ quickly becoming bored. The wolf within demanded action yet there naught to do but go on hunts and more adventures while still governing his people.

During the fifth celebration of the planet's unification, a stranger in unadorned robes appeared in the Wolf King's court, demanding that Russ swear allegiance to him. Russ laughed and stated the stranger must win that allegiance via by winning three challenges. The stranger agreed. The first was an eating contest, and though the stranger ate many times his apparent weight, the Wolf King had eaten twice as much. The stranger conceded defeat, and the second challenge was started. Both were to drink the strong mjod ale, a beverage strong enough to intoxicate Russ. Both drank for hours until the cellars ran dry, with the primarch having beaten the stranger by a mere two cups.

For the third and final challenge there was to be a duel, a clash of arms. It was here the stranger discarded his robes, revealing to all that he was the Emperor of Mankind. Russ and the Emperor fought briefly before Russ was defeated, knocked unconscious by the Emperor. When Russ awoke later that day he laughed and pledged his service to the Emperor who revealed to Russ that He was the primarch's true father.

Russ was taken off-world and introduced to his sons within a month of leaving Fenris. Russ was impressed by his sons and thusly renamed the Sixth Legion the _Vlka Fenryka_ , or Wolves of Fenris. Due to a translation error the name appears as Space Wolves in nearly all Imperial records and they are called as such by all but themselves. In his absence, Fenris' brief unity shattered and the never ending war between tribes began anew. When the Emperor queried on whether or not His son would stop this, Russ said he would not; rather he wanted Fenris to continue producing hardy warriors for the VI and the Imperium, the most efficient way was for his homeworld to remain harsh and unforgiving, rife with war and hardship.

Months after being found and reunited with his father, Russ met his brother Horus for the first time. Being the only two primarchs discovered at the time, it was a cause for great joy and camaraderie. Both brothers became fast friends, enjoying the similarities between their characters and their Legions, from naming to iconography. With two of the primarchs by His side, the Emperor and the Expeditionary Fleets rapidly pushed the boundaries of the new born Imperium.

 **Great Crusade-**

As the Imperium expanded, the other primarchs were discovered and introduced to their gene-sons. With each demigod united with his progeny, the Imperium surged in size and strength. During the Crusade, Russ fought alongside several of his brothers, befriending some, and making rivals of others. On the world of Dulan, the VI would fight beside the First Legion. The world's ruler, whose name and title have been lost to history, insulted the Wolf King. Russ vowed to personally kill the tyrant, and attacked the planet with his typical frontal assault tactics. As the days stretched into weeks, and casualties amongst the Wolves mounting, the Dark Angels arrived with their primogenitor.

After studying the situation, the First Primarch launched a strike at the despot's palace, just as the Wolves were breaking through its defences. Russ entered the throne room in time to see the Lion decapitate the insulter, angering Russ who saw it as a slight. Russ advanced upon his brother and they began to brawl, lasting days without pause until Russ realised how foolish their fight was and stopped, roaring with laughter. The Lion, thinking the laugh was a slight directed against him, punched his unprepared brother, knocking him out for a day. By the time Russ awoke, the Dark Angels were gone, and thus the rivalry was born. This gave birth to the tradition of a non-fatal duel between champions from both gene-lines, one that has continued into the 41st millennium. Despite this violent start and the competition that followed, a modicum of respect between the Legions began and would carry over when they became Chapters.

Though most of the Space Wolves history of compliance and campaigning is well-documented, there are two instances when the Sixth Legion was deployed and returned to the Imperium with their numbers much reduced. This forced the Wolves to curtail operations for several years until they properly recovered. It is unknown who the Wolves were unleashed against, but no information could be found, and any hints of what the actions entailed have been locked away by the Emperor. The other primarchs seemed to have known about the two campaigns, but were sworn to secrecy by their father, something which they followed even when some rebelled against Him during the Heresy. Once their ranks had been replenished, Russ and his sons rejoined the Crusade.

Out of all the compliance campaigns initiated by the Sixth Legion, the Compliance of Aghoru is one of the more significant. It was here where elements from the Space Wolves and the Thousand Sons would come into open and nearly disastrous disagreement for the first time. Long had the two gene-lines disliked the other, the XV seeing the VI as uncouth barbarians while the Fenrisians saw their Prosperine cousins as meddlers in dark sorcery, better known as maleficarum to sons of the Wolf King. It was on this planet where a taskforce from the Fifteenth Legion brought the world into the Imperium via peaceful diplomacy.

Aghoru had long ago fallen into superstition and regressed technologically. Once ruled by a race of beings called the Elohim (possibly an offshoot of the Eldar), the humans on the planet were in a pre-industrial state of development. A legend on the world, whispered by a fearful populace, spoke of malevolent spirits residing in 'the Mountain' named Daeisthai, Elohim who had fallen to self-obsession and darkness. Magnus the Red was fascinated by the Mountain and its tomb of dormant Daeisthai. Tragedy came when Captain Khalophis of the Sixth Fellowship accidentally awoke the Daeisthai from their centuries' long slumber. This resulted in the Battle of Containment. Over a thousand Astartes of the XV were planet-side with their primarch, and hundreds more were in orbit. Realising that he would need more legionnaires to combat this threat that was psychic in nature, the Crimson King sent astropathic communiques to nearby star systems where Thousand Son detachments were located, ordering them to Aghoru for reinforcement.

Magnus had hoped to halt the Daeisthai threat and carefully purge the Mountain, wishing to preserve its architecture and boundless historical significance for cultural study and examination. This would not come to pass as a squadron of Space Wolf warships enacting compliance on a nearby world intercepted the message, and after decoding it the Fenrisian Space Marines knew that the psychic beasts on Aghoru came from Hel and were maleficarum. Realising that Magnus would not do what was necessary to prevent a gateway to Hel opening the blue-grey Astartes rushed to Aghoru.

Once arrived, instead of sending their squads to reinforce the surface, the Space Wolf officer informed the Thousand Sons' Primarch that an orbital bombardment was to occur by standing order of Leman Russ. Magnus ordered the Space Wolves to stand down, but they refused.

 _Pack Master Garrek Redstone stared out his strike cruiser's main view-screen. 'The Mountain' as it was called was truly immense, more piercing than the Fang and even broader than Olympus Mons. It was a natural beauty but unfortunately it was tainted. Turning to look at the brother beside him, adorned in armour covered in wolf pelts and protective runes, he raised a thick eyebrow._

 _"Are you certain?" he asked._

 _The Rune Priest Yaelfalk Largennensson turned his head towards his pack master. Wolf and eagle bones hung around his neck, the animals of Fenris and the Allfather's Realm giving the wearer some protection against dark magicks and Helspawn._

 _"Aye, I am, pack master. The world reeks of maleficarum. Magnus' sorcerers cannot see it as we do for they bathe in its damning energy. Russ' will on what to do when such a breach into Hel is discovered is well known. We must do it."_

 _Redstone nodded. He looked to the vox kaerl. The mortal bowed in respect, but noted the man's scent was awash with worry. Magnus had continued to hail them since Redstone informed the crimson primarch of what was to happen out of necessity. The Fifteenth Son had ordered him to stand down, but Redstone answered only to the Leman Russ and the Allfather. What the Wolves did was for the betterment and safety of Mankind, but the Cyclops could only see his tomes of knowledge and the possible benefit they could bring, ignoring the dangers inherent in them. Redstone had given the primarch five hours to withdraw, who had only begun to do so two hours ago._

 _The strike cruiser Juelknof and its five escorts put themselves into their final positions for bombardment. The Prosperine battle-barge_ Scion of Tizca _neared them, torpedo tubes open, laser clusters, lance batteries, and plasma cannons facing the Vlka Fenryka warships but they did not lock onto them, nor were their energy weapons warmed to fire. An unsubtle threat, but empty in its lethality._

 _Redstone moved to the command dais. "Open a channel, all frequencies."_

 _The vox kaerl complied._

 _"Attention all Thousand Son and Imperial personnel, I am Garrek Redstone, pack master of the Wolves of Fenris. By the will of Leman Russ the Wolf King, Lord of Winter and War, and the Emperor's Enforcer, I hereby order the bombardment of the world known as Aghoru. A link to Hel has been identified and must be severed before a gateway opens. The bombardment will commence in precisely one minute. For Russ and the Allfather!"_

 _At a gesture, the link was cut. As the sixty seconds passed, Redstone noted nine dropships hastily emerging from Aghoru's atmosphere, one identified as the primarch's personal Stormbird. Defiant until the end, he thought._

 _"Three…" intoned the first kaerl, the ship's mortal master, "two… one…" He looked to Redstone, who spoke the order._

 _"Fire."_

 _Beams of deadly energy were fired, hitting the Mountain instantly, hundreds of missiles and torpedoes following. Many were simple high explosives, others incendiary. For over three hours the six warships unleashed their payloads against their target. Rock crumbled, stone broke, rivers and trees disappeared in ferocious assault. Cogitator-controlled recon craft transmitted data to the Wolves' ships, noting the Helspawn dying and being sent back to their cold realm. The Mountain began to collapse unto itself, sending significant amounts of dust into the air that would cool the planet for decades to come, killing much of the fauna and flora, as well as most of the human population._

 _The last ten missiles fired were atomic-tipped warheads. Ten mushroom clouds lit up the Juelknof's displays. Redstone watched as the fires dimmed but knew the inferno below would rage for days to come, the irradiated dust mingling with the wing to carry death across the world._

 _"It is done. Set a course for Aravea. I will inform Russ myself of this… incident." The pack master left the bridge, heading towards his chambers. The Rune Priest followed, sending muttered prayers to Mother Fenris._

 _Before the bridge doors closed, he saw scores of dropships and transports leaving XV starships. Search and rescue efforts, most like. Admirable, but was it done out of humanitarian concerns, or was it done to cover up guilt? It was because of the faults of the Thousand Sons that the world would die a slow death as nuclear winter arrived in the weeks and months to come._

 _Redstone knew, as the doors closed and he resumed his march to the intra-ship lift, that the relationship between the Rout and the Thousand Sons had become ever more brittle and strained._

The destruction of the Mountain caused an ecological chain reaction that caused Aghoru to enter a nuclear winter that would last over three hundred years. Magnus, enraged and shocked by the apparent callousness of the Wolves, contacted his brother and urged him to punish the legionnaires. Russ did no such thing, even going so far as to commend and honour the Wolves that participated in the action. Petitions from Magnus to his father were met with silence.

Magnus fumed, but could do little as the Great Crusade required his attention. Settling the surviving Aghoru population on other habitable worlds was the only victory in the Crimson King's eyes, but even that was pyrrhic at best. Magnus ordered the XV to avoid fighting beside the Space Wolves at all costs, an order that would endure the remainder of the Crusade, barring several exceptions. It would be several decades, but the Thousand Sons and Space Wolves would cross paths again, despite their efforts.

The Ark Reach Cluster was a confederacy of militant worlds that had been able to hold off Imperial Army offensives in their tracks for years. The Emperor, irritated that such a small empire dared to defy Him, ordered the three closest Legions nearby to conquer the Cluster and bring it to compliance. The Legions in question were the Word Bearers, the Thousand Sons, and the Space Wolves, all led by their respective primarchs.

In the joint campaign the strengths of all three Legions were used. The Word Bearers persistence and unwavering belief in victory, the Thousand Sons sorcerous powers, and the Space Wolves battle prowess. The Ark Reach military resisted fiercely using foul psionic weaponry but were ultimately defeated on a half dozen worlds. At first, all appeared well with the Imperium's forces. Lorgar acted as the mediator between his brothers, ensuring the campaign ran smoothly. It was on the capital world of Ark Reach Secundus where this uneasy peace fell apart.

During the final assault on Secundus' last holdouts as elements from all three Legions overcame the defences and swarmed into the city proper, a Thousand Son officer named Captain Aethor Raza began to lose control of his psyker powers, his body mutating as more and more warp energy coursed through it. The Immaterium's energy killed dozens of nearby Space Wolves. As Raza's situation worsened and began to spread to nearby XV legionnaires, Russ arrived and swiftly executed the mutating Astartes before they became consumed by the warp entirely. Magnus, who had rushed to aid his sons, found them butchered by his wolf brother. The Wolf King tried to explain what had occurred, but Magnus would not hear of it. It took Lorgar's mediating and calming tone to prevent more bloodshed being spilled between the VI and XV.

Russ, wishing to avoid more conflict, ordered the Rout to withdraw from Ark Reach Secundus, leaving the post-compliant duties to the Word Bearers. Magnus and Russ would not speak again until Nikaea.

 **Nikaea-**

Much happened in the months after Ark Reach Secundus: the Ullanor Crusade and subsequent Triumph, the ascension of Horus to Warmaster, and the Emperor's announcement of His imminent return to Terra. Before the Emperor retired from the frontlines, Russ urged his father to call a conclave to settle the matter of psykers. The Emperor, beset from both sides, agreed to decide once and for all Imperial policy over psychic powers.

On the world of Nikaea, thousands of Imperial administrators, bureaucrats, and military commanders met alongside representatives from a majority of the Legiones Astartes, including several primarchs. The pro-psyker faction was led by Magnus, the anti-psyker faction led by Leman Russ and Corvus Corax.

For hours both sides made their arguments but it remained a stalemate. Russ went before his father and spoke of how Magnus' hubris and careless pursuit of knowledge had led to disaster several times. Corax followed up on this detailing the countless worlds his Raven Guard had come across that had suffered under the yoke of psychic overlords or made a barren wasteland because of them.

As the debate's arguments began to escalate, several Space Marine Librarians approached the Emperor. They spoke passionately and convincingly of the benefits of psykers, of how those properly trained had allowed the Imperium to win battle after battle with their gifts alone. After this speech, the Emperor made His decision, a decision which would be known as the Librarian Compromise. The Librarius corps would remain, though more supervision and restrictions would be implemented. In spite of this acceptance, the Thousand Sons and their primogenitor would be censored and ordered to cease their extensive study of the Immaterium and their acquisition of dangerous warp-artefacts, much to their chagrin and shame. Thus the Edict of Nikaea was put into effect.

Though Russ pushed for the dismantlement of the Librarians, he felt that the Compromise was satisfactory and the threat that they represented to the Imperium was minimalised. In response to the vocal disagreement and visible disgruntlement of the Fifteenth Legion, Russ despatched dozens of agents to spy on the Thousand Sons. He knew his brother Magnus had done the same to him, allowing Russ to use Magnus' primary spy as a double agent.

 _"Will he follow it?" asked Kasper Hawser, standing near the hearth, attempting to warm himself in the Fenrisian winter._

 _"He must," muttered Aun Helwintr, Rune Priest of Tra. The Priest looked out from the Aett's plexiglass windows. Kilometres above the frost-covered landscape of Asaheim, he could see the bulk of the Vlka Fenryka's fleet in near-orbit. Resupply, rearmament and modifications were underway, prepping the Rout for war. The Wolf's Eye began to set upon the horizon, the land coloured in the shade of blood._

 _Hawser glanced at the Space Wolf, whose features were sad and heavy._

 _"If he does not, what will you do?" Hawser knew, but he had to hear it, to know that the Wolves would do what they have done before. He felt compelled._

 _Helwintr smiled but his face became sadder. "We will do what we have always done and ensure the Emperor's Will is enforced, no matter the cost."_

 _"Even if it leads to conflict?"_

 _"Yes, even then."_

 _The Eye dipped below the horizon, bathing the land in darkness._

For a time, it appeared the Crimson King was following the Emperor's Edict. Magnus had recalled the vast majority of his sons to Prospero, supposedly for re-education and to implement the new Edict guidelines that they must follow. Russ' spies reported that the XV was following the Emperor's orders to the letter. So it came as a surprise when an astropathic message from Terra ordered that the Sixth Legion go to Prospero, raze it to the ground, and to leave none alive. For Magnus, a kill-order was authorised, granting the Space Wolves the responsibility to carry out the sanction the Fifteenth Legion, a duty they have performed twice before. Russ accepted this with a heavy heart, knowing that this day would have come eventually, one way or another.

To eliminate a Legion as powerful as the Thousand Sons, Russ recalled the Rout in its entirety to assemble near Prospero. To assist in the planetary assault the Wolf King called upon the Mechanicum and the Silent Sisterhood for assistance. It took time, the warp having become beset with violent storms in recent weeks, but eventually ninety thousand Space Wolves had assembled. Several thousand Sisters of Silence and two Titan Legions had reinforced the VI. Now ready, the Sixth Primarch ordered his fleet into warp, their destination: Prospero.

 **The Burning of Prospero-**

As news of the Warmaster's near-death on Davin spread cross the Imperium alongside rumours of Night Lord atrocities, the Wolves of Fenris arrived to Prospero. Their Legion numbered six times that of the XV, and their void assets were significantly more numerous and more powerful than the scions of the desert world. Although the Wolves held the advantage in numbers and heavy units, Prospero was a homeworld of an Astartes Legion and was protected as such. Extensive orbital defences were bolstered by a sizable fleet and a highly trained Planetary Defence Force.

The VI fleet surged towards near-orbit, strike-teams attacking defence weapon platforms in the attempt of crippling them from the inside, whilst more teams were sent to capital ships. The escort-class warships were destroyed outright and after less than an hour of brutal void warfare the Rout attained position over the city of Tizca. While the rest of Prospero's cities burned in nuclear fire, the Raptora Cult's kine-shields protected the City of Light. A majority of the Thousand Sons and over a million Spireguard garrisoned the city. The Space Wolves first wave landed in Old Tizca and from there the Rout began to advance, killing all in their way in the push towards the city's centre.

Russ fought his way to the pyramid where his brother resided, coordinating the planet-wide defence. The Wolves, supplemented by the Sisters and the Mechanicum, broke through the Prosperine defensive lines, suffering heavy casualties, but after hours of bloody combat, Russ confronted Magnus. On the steps of the great pyramid the Wolf King confronted the Crimson King. The two primarchs fight eclipsed all other engagements on the battlefield. Magnus attempted to use his powerful psyker abilities but they were hardly effective against Russ as several Sisters of Silence fought beside the Wolf King, negating the Cyclops his sorcery, allowing Russ to use his immense strength against the other primarch,

The battle raged between the two for what felt like hours, but in reality lasted only moments, until Russ had lifted his brother above him for all to see and brought Magnus' back upon his knee, breaking it. Before Russ could deliver the killing blow, a Thousand Son officer interjected and distracted the Executioner long enough for his own gene-sire to teleport himself and most of the surviving legionnaires to the remaining warships in orbit, allowing them to escape. Despite the Sixth Legion's fleet best efforts, many evaded the hunter-killer squadrons and fled into the Immaterium. Nearly a third of the Thousand Sons would live to fight another day.

The Wolf King roared in frustration as Magnus used dark sorcery to escape. He killed the Thousand Son officer before him and ordered his Wolves to cleanse the world of all that still lived. It took the remainder of the day, but as the dusk settled over Tizca, the Fifteenth Legion's homeworld was a ruin, its people butchered, its industry and infrastructure destroyed beyond recovery. With Prospero burned to a cinder, the Wolf King ordered his fleet to follow the Crimson King. Prior to departure, Russ sent a powerful astropathic message to Terra. He informed the Emperor and his brothers of the details of Prospero's burning and his subsequent mission to hunt down and finish what he had started. As the last dropships carrying legionnaires boarded Rout warships, Russ and the _Vlka Fenryka_ entered the warp, beginning the Hunt for Magnus.

 **The Heresy-**

As Russ hunted for his wayward brother, reports began to arrive aboard the _Hrafnkel_. The Dropsite Massacre, Fulgrim becoming War Commander, the Traitor Legions initial offensives and more became known to Russ. This only drove the primarch harder in his search for the Cyclops, as he knew that if Magnus joined the traitors' main fleets then he would become a vital asset to them and therefore incredibly dangerous to the loyalists. Using his Rune Priests and the blood of the Fifteenth Primarch that coated _Mjalnar_ 's blade, Russ was able to track Magnus to the Akkad System.

 _Russ stared at the_ Photep _as his fleet neared the traitors'. Hundreds of_ Vlka Fenryka _ships versus less than forty Fifteenth Legion ships._

 _"Too few, there are too few," he muttered._

 _"My king?" queried Gunnar Gunnhilt, Jarl of Onn. What other Legions would have called First Captain stood near the primary view-screen, but turned to look at his father._

 _"The traitor fleet is far smaller than it should be," Russ explained. "The fleet that escaped the Burning was several times this size. Why would Magnus disperse his sons so?"_

 _"Perhaps he hoped you would follow one of the splinter fleets, or perhaps they go to join the Arch-Traitor's forces."_

 _Russ did not respond. He did not think those likely but held his tongue. He watched as the battle unfolded. Frigates, destroyers, cruisers of all types, battleships, carriers and battle-barges of the Rout broke through the traitors' protective screen._ _The_ Photep _lay in anchor over Akkad in spacedock, repair teams rapidly withdrawing as the ship readied for combat. Flights of interceptors and fighter-bombers from both sides redlined their engines to unleash their deadly payloads._

 _The VI punched through the red and gold warships with a hunter's grace, leaving a trail of broken ships venting air and corpses. The_ Hrafnkel _led the fleet like an alpha would a pack, its weapons breaking void shields and rupturing hulls. Russ watched until they were within weapon's range._

 _The teeth of the flagship were bared and they began to bite. Torpedo, lance, plasma, macrocannon and more were fired. The shields of the_ Photep _flickered. The primarch departed the bridge, heading to the nearest Caestus Assault Ram, Wolf Guard in tow. To negate the sorcerers and their witchcraft a dozen Sisters and half as many Rune Priests accompanied them._

 _The assault ram was forcefully ejected and soared through the chaotic void, dozens of others in its wake. It weathered through the fierce anti-ship laser clusters and impacted the rebel flagship's scarred hull. Shredding through adamantium and plasteel plates, it halted, allowing its passengers to disembark. Russ brought_ Mjalnar _before him, readying the blade's spirit for the killing to come._

 _The Wolf King prowled through the ship, slaughtering crew and the few legionnaires that he came across. But there were not enough. A third of the XV escaped Prospero, and there couldn't be more than a few hundred at most in the fleet from the reports that were filtering to his vox-bead._

 _Was he wrong? Did his warp-scryers and Rune Priests falsely predict here his brother would be? Nonetheless, he continued with the murder-make._

 _Half an hour passed until they reached the chamber where Magnus' psychic mark could be detected. Opening the doors, Russ leaped in expecting to end what had begun months ago. But instead of his brother sitting on the room's single throne, it was instead a heavily muscled creature with azure coloured wings and a beak akin to a bird, taller than Russ and bearing four elongated horns rising from its skull. From its razor sharp teeth maw came a voice._

 _"Welcome, brother, to your death."_

Russ and his strike-team reached Magnus' personal chamber but instead of finding the Traitor Primarch, they found a Greater Daemon of Hel. A majority of Magnus' conscience had been attached to the daemon, fooling Russ' Rune Priests into thinking the creature was the Cyclops. As the Traitor Primarch finished speaking, his soul returned to its body elsewhere, far from Akkad, and the Greater Daemon awoke from its slumber and the slaughter began.

The daemon focused first on the Sisters, killing all that had accompanied the primarch. The Sisters mere presence weakened the beast and with every Sister killed, the daemon became stronger. The Wolf Guard and the Rune Priests fought with their strengths against the Helspawn, but it did little against such an unnatural being. Russ and the daemon fought to a standstill, the daemon taunting the primarch for the battle's duration. Russ eventually gained the upper hand and banished it back to the warp, nearly dying in the process. The surviving Wolf Guard led by Bjorn carried a near-dead demigod back to the assault ram which subsequently returned to the Sixth Legion flagship. Russ would be in the Apothecarion for weeks as his body healed itself.

During recovery, Russ reflected on his brashness in following the obvious target. He concluded that after the Burning, Magnus joined Fulgrim's 28th Expedition Fleet, bolstering its already formidable ensemble of strength. The trap that he had walked into had been orchestrated by both Magnus and First Captain Ahzek Ahriman. By the time Russ fully recovered, the Sixth Legion had ravaged Akkad, destroying its vast libraries and centres of knowledge, and stripping bare the orbital docks to resupply and repair their own ships.

Unable to directly attack Fulgrim, as warp storms and overwhelming numbers prevented it, the Wolf King was forced to be content with assaulting the flank and forcing the Arch-Traitor to divert crucial resources to stop him. This marked the beginning of the Howling, the four and a half years in which the Space Wolves assailed the traitors' flanks in a manner similar to what the Iron Warriors, Raven Guard, Blood Angels and Sons of Horus were doing, but unable to link up with any significant numbers of these fellow loyalists, cut off from support.

The next several years would see the Space Wolves bleed the Traitor Legions, perhaps more so than any other. While the other Loyalist Legions fought to slow down the traitors to allow Terra time to prepare, the Sixth Legion was ever on the offensive, never on the defensive. Garrison worlds, supply caches, fuel depots, shipyards, and more were attacked by the sons of Russ. Every Traitor Legion felt the sharp fangs of the VI gnawing at their heels.

In the fourth year of the Heresy, Fulgrim ordered Angron to eliminate Russ. The Red Angel gathered much of his World Eaters and assumed overall command of the campaign against the Space Wolves. For a year the Wolves of Fenris fought bravely against Angron, but the Unbroken Gladiator was a shrewd strategist, outmatched by only a handful of his brothers and constricted the loyalists' territory. After a year of such tactics, the Sixth Legion found themselves pushed into the far reaches of the Ultima Segmentum, surrounded by overwhelming force from elements of several Traitor Legions. To make matters worse, the VI was trapped against the storm wall of the Ruinstorm that cut off Ultramar from the rest of the Imperium.

Angron gathered his Legion and allies, venturing forth to destroy the Emperor's Executioner and his Legion. The Battle of the Stormwall, as it would be called, was horrendous for both sides. The Space Wolves had long been considered the best close quarter fighters in the Legiones Astartes, but were simply outnumbered by their traitorous cousins. The VI's fleet was in severe need for mass repair, the Wolves having cannibalised their fleet for years, allowing it to remain in fighting condition albeit barely. The traitors on the other hand were relatively well-rested, much better supplied and their ships were in far superior condition.

Russ, knowing his back was against the wall, decided that his sons would die with honour and the blood of their enemies on their fists. Russ hoped to cripple the forces arrayed against him, allowing the chances of the Arch-Traitor's successful assault on Terra to dwindle significantly. Forty thousand Wolves fought nearly a hundred thousand traitors from various Legions. The World Eaters, Sons of Fulgrim, Word Bearers, and elements of the Iron Hands plus other Space Marine support fought the Wolf King's cornered fleet.

For hours both sides thrashed the other. Despite the Wolves skill and combat prowess, they were being defeated. But just as all hope seemed to be lost, a break in the Ruinstorm appeared. Russ saw this as aid from the Allfather and took advantage of the opportunity. He ordered all of his legionnaires that could break off to withdrawal through the cleared space and enter Ultramar's relative safety. To allow more of his sons a chance to survive, Russ launched a strike against the Abyss-class Word Bearer ship the _Blessed Lady_. His flagship was destroyed as it neared the traitor ship, but it brought over a thousand Wolves in range to attack via boarding torpedo and assault ram. As the Lord of Winter and War scoured through the immense battleship, Angron rushed to reinforce the beleaguered XVII legionnaires. On the bridge of the _Blessed Lady_ , Wolf King fought Red Angel, each wounding the other.

The duel swung from one's favour to the next, until Angron gained the upper hand and nearly killed Russ, but the Emperor's Enforcer was saved by Rune Priest Othere Wyrdmake, who sacrificed himself to transport his primarch back to the last fleeing ship, the _Ragnarok_. The traitors won the battle, but were unable to eliminate the Sixth Legion in full.

After the _Ragnarok_ exited the warp in Guilliman's sub-empire, the Ruinstorm closed once again and the traitors did not follow. Russ wanted to ascertain the situation in Ultramar as information from it had been scattered and incoherent at best. The Wolf King and the twenty thousand Space Wolf survivors made way to Macragge.

T _he Crown Mountains' crisp winter air reminded Russ somewhat of Fenris, albeit if it was a light summer's breeze. Compared to the harsh winters of home, it was. Banners of various Ultramarine Chapters and companies adorned the long pristine corridors. Guilliman's legionnaires stood sentry throughout, their attention sharp even here. Russ looked out across Magna Macragge Civitas, amused at the marble, stone, metal and glass that made up the city. It was something that, outside of the Aett, would never appear on his homeworld._

 _Booted footfalls came from behind, and he turned to greet the walker. Roboute Guilliman, the Thirteenth Primarch, Lord of Ultramar, the Last Battle-King and Avenging Son plus countless more titles stood there, noble looking. His brother wore a robe in the cobalt blue and gold of his Legion, a white cloak edged in gold with a similarly coloured Ultima upon its centre fell from his shoulders. Russ wore his war-plate; rarely removing it except when repairs were needed or for the rare times he truly slept._

 _Guilliman looked at the armour and back to his brother's face. "You do not have to wear it here, Leman. You can rest."_

 _"Rest." He tested the word, a foreign concept for years "It has become alien to me, Roboute. Since I fell upon Prospero, I have not truly rested and nor will I. The time for rest can wait for when the war is over."_

 _"You are safe here, brother."_

 _Russ' gaze sharpened on the other primarch. "Safe? Aye, it is safe here. You hide on your capital world while the galaxy burns, securing your own little empire while our father's falls apart. We have to defeat Fulgrim and Magnus and the others, not wait about here. We have a duty, a responsibility to Mankind to do so! You should have braved the Ruinstorm, attempted to re-join the Imperium. If you had been beside me we could have cut the traitors' advance in two! Yet you speak of being safe." The last words were snarled._

 _Guilliman's face had become hard as stone and eyes cold as ice during the tirade. Russ saw this, and inwardly cursed his behaviour. Raising his hands, he spoke softly._

 _"Peace, brother, peace. Forgive my words. I know you have done much here and preserving Ultramar as you have since the Shadow Crusade is admirable. If it were not for the Ruinstorm, you would have doubtlessly reinforced Terra."_

 _Guilliman's nod was curt but his demeanour began to loosen. The Ultramarine Primarch moved to stand beside the Wolf King and both looked out over the majesty that was Macragge. They stood there for a moment, allowing an illusion of serenity to come over them._

 _A flight of Lightning fighters flew overhead; their engine sounds having disrupted the illusion. Reality returned and with it grim facts. Russ looked at his brother._

 _"What is Ultramar's current situation?" he asked._

 _"Largely stable," Guilliman said. "The worlds closest to Macragge are entirely cleansed of traitor presence, but the outlying star systems have proven troublesome to secure. Two score worlds remain under occupation by Word Bearer and Iron Hand remnants, leftovers from the Shadow Crusade, with raider squadrons ever on the move. Lorgar and Ferrus may have left my realm three years ago, but tens of thousands of their sons remain causing chaos and bloodshed across the Five Hundred Worlds. Even more disturbing are confirmed reports of Alpha Legion Space Marines and assets being spotted throughout Ultramar. I am not sure exactly how they were able to get past the Ruinstorm, but our brothers were able to leave after their rampage concluded with little difficulty so it seemed. They have denizens of the warp on their side." Daemons, thought Russ, they are daemons. "Already rebellion has sprouted like weeds on fourteen worlds with more undoubtedly being orchestrated even now._

 _"My border fleets continuously patrol the outer edge of the Ruinstorm, looking for breaks in the storm. Some have been reported, but they are incredibly rare and do not last long. The chances that a break would come about during the Battle of the Stormwall are truly astronomical."_

 _"The Allfather did it," he said matter-of-factly. Guilliman looked at his brother, doubt on his features. "Our father made the opening. I do not know how, nor care to find out. His doing saved my sons and I." The Thirteenth nodded at this but Russ could tell Guilliman did not share his belief on the matter. Shrugging, he folded his arms in thought._

 _Silence reigned for a brief time. "I have the estimations on the fleet repairs."_

 _Russ turned quickly to Guilliman. "And?"_

 _The Lord of Ultramar frowned. "Worse than we first thought. Most of your ships require extensive maintenance. A majority can be made ready in a year, but many require upwards to three. Some can be fielded again in four months' time though."_

 _Russ scowled at this. Five years without a proper refit and forced cannibalisation had taken its toll. Cut off from the Imperium, and unable to fight the enemies within his brother's realm irked him. A thought occurred._

 _"You plan to eliminate the remaining traitor threats here in Ultramar, correct?"_

 _"Yes, of course. We have been doing so for three years. They have become quite adept at avoiding decisive conflict and their endless raids wound us."_

 _"Good. You can include the Wolves of Fenris in your battle order. Our ships may need to remain behind to be repaired, but we only need another battlefield to prowl upon." Russ showed his long canine teeth in a savage smile. He held out his hand. "Let us cleanse your worlds together." Guilliman's hand grabbed it firmly in agreement._

In the final two years of the Fulgrimian Heresy, the Space Wolves and the Ultramarines fought in unison against the traitors in Ultramar. Alpha Legion, Iron Hand, Word Bearer and others fell to the power swords of the XIII and the frostblades of the VI. From the Ocean World of Maldea to Saramanth the two Loyal Legions fought and bled together.

As the years trudged onwards the Ruinstorm began to steadily weaken, allowing easier and safer travels within the enclosed realm. Some information seeped in from the wider galaxy during this time. Due to this, Russ and Guilliman learned the War Commander was on Terra's doorstep, having taken Cthonia and laid siege to Proxima Centauri. The two primarchs knew the natural degradation of the Ruinstorm would take several more years until fully broken down, but they needed to depart immediately if they were to have a chance at reinforcing the Throneworld.

It was Guilliman's idea to use the ancient xenos device known as the Pharos to punch a hole through the Ruinstorm. Using the device in this way caused the machine to fail, never to recover, but not before it carved a narrow but stable pathway out of the Five Hundred Worlds. The VI and the XIII quickly departed to reinforce Terra, but arrived too late.

The two Loyal Legions arrived to a devastated Sol System, the Traitor Legions having retreated only days before. Guilliman and Russ were greeted by Warmaster Horus who told them of the tragedy that had befallen Mankind. Dorn dead by Fulgrim's blade, the War Commander killed by the Emperor, and worst of all He was entombed on the Golden Throne. Large portions of Terra and Mars were ravaged by war, so too were the Solar Colonies in the Outer System. The Fulgrimian Heresy was over, but at immense cost.

In the year that followed, the Year of Intermission, the loyalist fleets and armies readied for the galactic-wide counter-attack. Horus led the Senatorum Imperialis and several of his brother primarchs held positions within the new government. Perturabo became the second Emperor's Praetorian, Vulkan the Regent of Mars, Sanguinius the Imperial Prince, Lion El'Jonson the Lord Protector, and Guilliman the Lord Warden. It was to these demigods and the hundreds of other mortal Senators that worked beside them to ready the Imperium for the new age it found itself in. The duty of Russ in the new Imperium was the same he had held before: the Emperor's Enforcer and Executioner.

As the Great Scouring began, the Space Wolves set about purging the Imperium of any possible Fifteenth Legion taint. The legionnaires of Fenris travelled the length and breadth of the galaxy, destroying the worlds that made up the Prosperine Hegemony. Countless treasure troves of ancient tomes and half-forgotten knowledge were burned, the information contained inside them deemed too dangerous to endure. Once the Hegemony was eradicated, Russ rendezvoused with Imperial forces and assisted in the wars against the Syndicate Chaotica and other Chaos forces. The victories won by the Sixth Legion during the Scouring entered the sagas of the Rout for all time; banners marking these victories still hang in honour in the Fang's Great Hall.

 **Post-Heresy-**

After the fires of the Scouring cooled the Imperial Reformation began. By order of the High Lords of Terra, in the Emperor's Name, the Imperial Army was permanently divided into the Navy and Guard, the Iron Cages approved for construction, and above all the dismantling of the Legions. Hundreds of reforms were passed, but it was the Codex Astartes that affected primarchs and Space Marines the most. Penned by Guilliman, with significant contributions from several other primarchs, the Codex saw to the elimination of the Legiones Astartes as an organisation, replacing it with the Adeptus Astartes. No longer would Legions numbering tens of thousands to a quarter of million exist; rather the five thousand-strong Chapters would be the new formation for the Emperor's Angels of Death.

Out of all the primarchs, Russ protested this decree most fiercely. He was aghast at the reform, stating it deviated from the Emperor's vision. Though some of his brothers shared this view with him they decided to follow it as they saw the logic in doing so. Russ continued to ignore the order to accept the decree for several months until Horus and Guilliman warned that to defy the order any longer would be construed as treason. Russ knew that a second civil war would have dire consequences for the Allfather's Realm and accepted the High Lords ruling. The Space Wolves, so heavy were their casualties during the Heresy, that they could only field a single Successor Chapter during the Second Founding: the Wolf Brothers.

The Wolf King continued to protect the Imperium for several centuries. The Ja'Hedahm Purge, the Ferso Rebellion, the Battle of Aginthon VII, and more are noted victories of the _Vlka Fenryka_ over the various and xenos and traitors. The Wolf King fought energetically, passionately, yet as the centuries continued he began to grow restless and bitter. Failing to be by the Emperor's side when He needed him most ate away at Russ' spirit. After years of dissatisfaction, the primarch announced at the annual Great Feast that he would depart towards the Eye of Terror. Some claim the Wolf King left to track down Magnus for eternity, some say he left for the Eye to kill traitors until none remained, while other claim he went searching for the fabled Tree of Life to bring the Emperor back from His deathly state. It may never be known as to why Russ left, but on the four hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the Emperor's Ascension to the Golden Throne, the Lord of Winter and War left Fenris with the Thirteenth Great Company and never returned.

B _jorn the Fell-Handed is the second most famous Space Wolf, lagging behind only his king. Bjorn began the war as part of Tra Company but after distinguishing himself during the Burning, he was selected by Russ to become part of his Wolf Guard. This gave Bjorn great honour and was humbled by his primarch's decision._

 _Bjorn gained the moniker of 'Fell-Handed' during the Battle of Akkad. Bjorn led a strike-team to the bridge, securing it after a fierce skirmish with several Thousand Sons and their serfs. He was made aware of the trap his father had walked into by call of reinforcement by the Wolf Guard attending the primarch. Being the closest legionnaires, Bjorn and his pack rushed to the Crimson King's chambers. Discarded before Bjorn were the entirety of Russ' strike team, the Wolves and Sisters killed by brute strength and dark sorcery. As the Greater Daemon and primarch were locked in stalemate, Bjorn rushed towards the daemon, his pack with him. The Helspawn, using maleficarum, killed all but Bjorn, his arm having been infected with warp-taint, causing immense pain. This distraction proved fruitful as it gave Russ the opening he needed to kill the daemon, nearly ending his life in the process. Before the Wolf King fell into unconsciousness from his extensive wounds, he was beside Bjorn who lay in agony on the deck. Russ raised Mjalnar and cut off the tainted arm of Bjorn, thus saving his son. Russ then fell into a coma._

 _When the primarch awoke, he promoted Bjorn to Thenn of his Wolf Guard. During the following years of the Howling, Bjorn fought beside or represented his primarch on dozens of battlefields. The Fell-Handed did the same in the Cleansing of Ultramar, the Scouring and the centuries that followed._

 _Centuries after the Heresy, Russ announced he would leave for the Eye of Terror. Bjorn expected to go with him, as were the rest of the Guard and the entire Thirteenth Company, but it was not to be so. Bjorn would remain behind to guide and lead the Wolves, much to the Fell-Handed's despair and chagrin. When Russ left, Bjorn became the first Great Wolf and led the Chapter for over five hundred years until he was mortally wounded during a suppression of rebellion. Unable to be healed by the Wolf Priests, Bjorn was emplaced within a Dreadnought chassis. Every century a great feast is held and Bjorn awoken from stasis-slumber to tell the stories of old in conjunction with skjalds, telling his brothers of their history and primarch. On occasion, either for matters of great import or for when Fenris is under attack, the Wolves awaken the Eldest for advice and leadership. Each and every time the Revered One has helped the_ Vlka Fenryka _secure victory. After the matter is over or the battle concluded, Bjorn is returned to stasis-sleep to await the next time he is needed. It is agreed by the Imperium at large that Bjorn is the longest serving Astartes in Imperial history and the only confirmed living loyalist Space Marine from the time of the Emperor. This has made the Fell-Handed a saint in the eyes of the Imperial masses, much to his chagrin for such things._

Some in the Imperium speculate that the Sixth Primarch is dead, but the Space Wolves themselves do not believe this. They remember their father's finals words, that when the Imperium needed him most he would be there for the final battle, for the Wolftime. The entire Rout present swore an oath to their departing father that they would never stop fighting, that they would preserve the Imperium until he returned.

Since that time the Space Wolves have stayed true to their oath, never tiring in their pursuit of duty and ever watchful for the Archenemy, ever willing to confront the pawns of darkness in the name of Russ and the Allfather. With the 41st Millennium coming to a close and the Eleventh Vengeance Crusade soon to begin in a galaxy rife with war the Space Wolves and their handful of Successors believe that the time of their primarch's return is imminent and ready themselves for the Wolftime.

 **Organisation-**

Since the early years of the Great Crusade the Space Wolves were made up of thirteen Great Companies, each led by a Jarl. Varying in size and specialty the Great Companies of Russ were known throughout the Imperium as fearsome fighters. After the Codex was accepted, the _Vlka Fenryka_ still continued to use thirteen companies, in sharp contrast to the ten dictated by the Codex. The modern day Space Wolves only field twelve Great Companies, for the Thirteenth joined their primarch on his endeavour into the Eye of Terror and were never replaced nor considered lost. To the Wolves, their brethren are on a mission and will await their return patiently. Every year at Feast, the tables are set and a tankard of _mjod_ is set aside for their brothers and father. Though none have ever returned, their hope is unshakeable and after every Feast, the Wolves mutter warmly to each other that perhaps next year they will come.

The Chapter is led by the Great Wolf, lord and master of the Space Wolves until the Wolf King returns. The current Chapter Master is Ragnar Blackmane, Logan Grimnar's chosen successor, selected by the Great Wolf as he lay dying amidst a hundred enemies. The legend of the Black Wolf is well known across much of the Imperium. He had been an Astartes for less than a century, though the exact date is unclear as the Space Wolves have not divulged that information. He bypassed the rank of Grey Hunter altogether and became part of Wolf Lord Berek Thunderfist's Wolf Guard. When Berek perished in battle, the young Space Marine succeeded him, becoming the youngest Wolf Lord in Chapter history. Since that time, the young Wolf has shown his aggression, battle prowess, diplomatic skill and military acumen. To complement his impressive combat record, he served several years in the Wolfblade whilst a Blood Claw. This has secured Ragnar strong support from Navigator House Belisarius, the only House that supplies Navigators to the Space Wolves due to ancient treaties signed by Leman Russ and the House Celestarch.

The events that led to Ragnar's ascension to Chapter command began with a Chaos plot to destroy Fenris via a warp storm. The then Wolf Lord Ragnar Blackmane and Great Wolf Logan Grimnar discovered the insidious scheme and disrupted the traitor ritual taking place on one of Fenris' sister planets: Midgardia. The battle was fierce and the day was won, but at heavy cost.

The new Chapter Master quickly cemented his position by the victory and cleansing of Midgardia of daemonic taint. Later, he won a majority of the votes during the Great Annulus, securing his lordship over the Chapter. Yet not all was well, for many Wolf Lords felt that they, not a young pup, should be the Great Wolf. Not only was there dissension from within, but also outside interference. The Holy Inquisition, long suspicious of the Space Wolves for their defiance of Imperial authority and refusal to abide by the orders and wishes of the High Lords. The situation between the Chapter and the Inquisition has only worsened since the First War of Armageddon and the ensuing Months of Shame half a millennium ago.

Weathering through doubts and insults, Ragnar was able to cleanse the Fenris System of Inquisition spies without killing or maiming any of them. This comforted several of his detractors, thus gaining him allies, and establishing the foundation for a potentially long and glorious reign.

 _It had been a peaceful day, until_ they _arrived. The first warning was the warp-scryers falling to their knees, screaming about primal fury rapidly approaching from the Immaterium. The Prognosticars felt it too, and warned their superiors immediately. The various squadrons in orbit coalesced into a task-force, led by Grand Master Vorth Mordrak. An encoded astropathic message was sent to the Supreme Grand Master, whom attended a closed session of the High Lords along many of the Inquisitions leading agents, but it would take many hours for him to be here, even with the fastest ship. The worst was assumed, that daemonic forces were coming to attack Titan._

 _He, Justicar Alaric of the Grey Knights, rushed towards his station, ordering his battle-brothers to their positions. He interjected a nearby security satellite into his helm's visual feed to witness the arrival. From the warp came nineteen ships. The first was recognised as the_ Allfather's Honour _,_ _flagship of the Space Wolves._ The next was Stormrider _, flagship of the Storm_ _Krakens. The third was_ Silverfang _, flagship of the Wolf Brothers. Each following ship was either the flagship or a battle-barge of a Space Wolf Successor. They were just outside the range for weapons' fire. Not daemons, but certainly not friendlies._

 _As a justicar, he could hear Central Control send a vox message to the_ Allfather's Honour. _"Space Wolves, why have you come here?" asked Grand Master Talus._

 _The answer followed with no hesitation. "We bring you your spies. Allow us to deposit them via dropship, or we will eject them into space. Then you will have to try and debrief corpses."_

 _Talus was silent for but a moment. "Agreed, here are your landing coordinates."_

 _The link was terminated. It took almost a half hour but the Space Wolves had sent a Stormbird to the surface of Titan. Alaric, his men, and the three hundred brothers that had been at the Grey Knights Fortress-Monastery assembled in formation on a surface landing pad._

 _The Stormbird lowered, landing gear extended. Once it touched the metal of the pad, a ramp lowered, yet the engines remained at full power. They do not trust us, he thought, unsurprised._

 _The first figure down the ramp was an Astartes of medium build, bedecked in advanced power armour. It was covered in runes, wolf fetishes and rimmed with fur around neck and shoulders. Eighteen followed him. Alaric observed the arrivals, their varying armour schemes different in colour or manner but all originating from the same source. A representative from every Successor Chapter, led by lord of the parent Chapter, stood facing the Grand Master Talus. Grand Master Mordrak remained in orbit in case of treachery. Grey Knights versus Space Wolves, no others were to interfere._

 _A lord of Wolves, his face covered by his helm, as were they all, looked around, almost disdainfully. Shaking his head minutely, he beckoned into the interior of the dropship. Nearly forty men and women were ushered out by two Space Wolves in Terminator Armour. They wore skinsuits and void-helms, and chains._

 _Talus glanced at them, then back to the Wolf._

 _"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded._

 _"No more spies, Grey Knight. Your masters thought they could arrive on our homeworld and not be detected. The Inquisition consistently shows itself to be foolish and wasteful in this regard. The Wolf motioned for the mortals to trudge towards the Grey Knights, who stood impassive._

 _"You are him, aren't you?"_

 _The Wolf looked at the Grand Master, and Alaric would have reckoned that underneath the blue-grey ceramite, plasteel and adamantium, there was a wolfish grin._

 _"Aye, I am Ragnar Blackmane, Great Wolf of the Wolves of Fenris."_

 _Talus raised his fist in salute. "Greetings, Chapter Master." There was respect there in that tone. The Wolves loyalty to the Emperor could never be denied, and their feud with the Inquisition had stretched into times unremembered. The Inquisition, specifically the Ordo Malleus may detest the Wolves, but the Grey Knights had respect for them. Lucky for both sides then, that no Inquisitor of appropriate rank was available, for if the Inquisitor ordered the Grey Knights to arrest or attack the other Astartes they would comply without question. It was their duty._

 _But no blows were exchanged, just prisoners and words. Alaric watched the Wolves and their brother Chapter representatives board the dropship. Their display of unity would dismay the High Lords and the Inquisition's upper hierarchy, but no complaints or note of this event would ever be written, as if it had never occurred. In the unseen conflict between the Emperor's Inquisition and His Wolves, there were no official battlegrounds or rules, but this was a legionnaire victory without question._

 _The Great Wolf and the Grand Master exchanged pleasantries for a moment. The Chapter Master made his way back to the ship to join his allies, but he turned around when he was halfway up the boarding ramp and spoke through his external speakers at max volume._

 _"Knights of Titan, know this! Do not let over five hundred years of relative peace fall into ruin. Do not interfere with our affairs and we will not with yours. But if the Inquisition attempts to, as they undoubtedly will, then we, the sons of Russ, will return and voice our displeasure more severely." Ragnar turned and walked into the hold as the ramp clanged shut. Alaric knew that the if they returned again to voice displeasure, it would be far more violent and regretful for both sides._

 _The Stormbird kicked up dust as it rose from the platform and roared into the skies towards the awaiting fleet._

The Chapter has a unique structure in comparison to Codex-compliant Chapters. Instead of a traditional Neophyte, then Tactical Marine and so forth, the Space Wolves instead have the Blood Claws, Wolf Scouts, the Grey Hunters, Long Fangs and Lone Wolves. The Blood Claws are the Chapters Neophytes, armed with little more than a chainsword and bolt pistol, they are encouraged to charge straight at the enemy to prove themselves and to vent their impulsive energy of youth. Those that survive are then selected by a Great Company and ascend to the rank of Grey Hunter, replacing archaic chainsword for frostblade. After centuries of service, when the Wolf in question has become wise and mindful, he is promoted to Long Fang. These heavy weapon specialists bring the fury of their primarch from afar. Those that become Wolf Scouts are typically those that cannot integrate into a pack, and are more comfortable alone. These Astartes are few and far between, but enough of them occur to give the Wolves a powerful and experienced Scout corps.

A Lone Wolf is a unique and tragic rank within the Chapter. Veterans of countless campaigns, the Space Marines that become Lone Wolves are the only living member of their pack and feel the despair at losing all their pack-brothers. Integration with other packs usually fails, and rather than force the warrior in question to fall into place, a Wolf Lord will give the Space Marine leave to wander the galaxy, fighting in the Allfather's name until death takes him. It is not uncommon for a single Space Marine bearing the colours and markings of the Space Wolves to arrive on distant battlefields throughout the Imperium and fight without concern for his own well-being. These warriors typically secure victory for Imperial forces, their mere presence bolstering morale. If the Lone Wolf does not die during the battle, he gathers his equipment and sets off to the next warzone, awaiting his death, eagerly wishing to rejoin his deceased pack-brothers in spirit.

The ranks of officers are also wildly different. The first command rank is that of pack master, who commands a squad, known as a pack in the Chapter's terminology. Blood Claws do not have pack masters in the same manner of Grey Hunter. The brazen young Neophytes tend to have an experienced Space Marine, usually a member of the Wolf Guard or veteran Grey Hunter, guide the Blood Claws into battle. The next rank is Wolf Lord, also called Jarl, equivalent to captain. The protector and enforcers of the Wolf Lord are his Wolf Guard; the commanders of the Guard are called Thenn. Though they usually stay beside their lord in full strength, they are oft given command of Blood Claws or Grey Hunters in battle, to better represent their lord in battle. The last rank is that of Great Wolf. Chosen by vote between the Wolf Lords of the Twelve Great Companies in the Fang's Great Annulus, the winner of the vote then becomes the next official Great Wolf and entered into the sagas as thus. When a Great Wolf dies, he tends to either have a known successor or chooses one at his death, to lead the Chapter until the other eleven Wolf Lords can meet and decides on who the next Great Wolf will be. This is how Ragnar Blackmane became interim Chapter Master until the Annulus in which he barely won, but has since proven himself to be a Great Wolf of Grimnar's calibre.

The specialist formations within the Chapter are the Wolf Priests, Iron Priests and Rune Priests. A Wolf Priest is a combination of Apothecary and Chaplain and such they are responsible for not only the preservation of Russ' genetic code but also the preservation of the spirit in the Chapter's warriors. Iron Priests are the Techmarines of the Chapter, and are responsible for maintenance and oversee production of the Chapter's warships and vehicles. They also regularly upgrade and enhance the defences of the Fang. The Rune Priests are the wielders of Mother Fenris' power. Similar to Librarians in other Chapters, the Rune Priests use their magicks in war and study it to better harness and control it. Unlike other Chapters beside their own Successors, the Rune Priests do not believe their power is derived from the warp, which they view as tainted, but rather it comes from their homeworld itself. This has led to thousands of years of arguments and debate dating back to before the Edict of Nikaea between the Space Wolves and their detractors. Nonetheless, the Wolves believe their power to be gifted to them by Fenris and not taken from the Chaos-infested warp.

 **Recruitment-**

Since the discovery of Leman Russ, the Space Wolves only recruit from Fenris. Not even from the sisters-planets of Midgardia and Frostheim, both Death Worlds, are Aspirants recruited from. Instead these two planets and their populations provide hardened PDF regiments for system defence, which have proven their worth during the several invasions of the Fenris System.

On the primarch's homeworld, only the strongest are chosen to join the ranks of the Sky Warriors. War-hardened young males are chosen by Wolf Priests, these Aspirants would face many trials ahead of them. Their final and greatest challenge was to drink from the Cup of Wulfen, and then undergo the Test of Morkai: stranded far from the Fang and told to make their way back with little to no clothing, food or weapons. They must survive and arrive back to the Fang where a warm hearth awaits them. Those that returned are welcomed as brothers and join the Blood Claws' ranks, now a full member of the Space Wolves.

 **Homeworld-**

The homeworld of the Space Wolves has been Fenris for over ten thousand years. Being one of the first primarchs discovered, countless generations of Fenrisian sons have been recruited by the Wolves and fought against the enemies of the Allfather across the Sea of Stars. Fenris is one of the most inhospitable worlds under the dominion of the Imperium of Man, yet despite this the world's population thrives and is acknowledged as one of the hardiest in the galaxy.

 **Beliefs-**

The Space Wolves have always been a spiritual brotherhood. The culture and mythology of their homeworld has great impact on the Rout's Space Marines. There are many beliefs held by the Chapter, but the most significant is that Leman Russ is not dead and will one day return with the Thirteenth Great Company to fight in the Last Battle against the enemies of darkness. The Emperor is not seen as a god by the _Vlka Fenryka_ , though their respect and admiration for Him is equal to that of their primogenitor. Though their loyalty to the Emperor is unshakeable, their loyalty to His empire has been called into question, causing difficulties with the High Lords and other Imperial organisations, especially the Inquisition. This friction had led to conflict on several occasions but has always been prevented from escalating too far.

 **Gene-seed-**

An unknown problem outside of the Chapter is the instability of Russ' gene-seed. Before the discovery of the primarch, the Sixth Legion nearly died out as most Aspirants died upon receiving the gene-seed, with the gene-seed itself mutated to the point of uselessness. For the few whose bodies accepted the implantation, problems arose later for many. Their genetic code began to break down, and they soon lost themselves to their own mind, forcing them to be executed by their own brothers. The legionnaires of the VI kept this a secret from the wider Imperium, fearing what might happen to them if it were to known that they were genetically unstable.

Finding the Wolf King only a few decades into the Great Crusade alleviated many fears within the VI, their hope having manifested in their father. Russ worked tirelessly in those early years, his sons numbering hardly more than a few thousand. After years of study, he came up with a solution: the Canis Helix. This modification to his genetic tissue stabilised the gene-seed, bringing with it senses superior to those of other Legions, though it did not lack problems of its own. After implementation, the Aspirants underwent a tortuous physical transformation. Their bones split and buckled, their body fighting between wolf and man, known as the Curse of the Wulfen. It was in this state where they were deposited in Asaheim's wilderness. The physical and mental stress of surviving and attempting to return to the Fang saw many lose their inner battle against the wolf, losing their humanity all together. Those that survived and returned did not mean their internal struggle was over. For the rest of their lives, they would deal with the Curse. It is thanks only to the fortitude of the Rout's Space Marines and the vigilance of the Wolf Priests that many do not succumb to their primal instincts.

Despite the Canis Helix, Russ' gene-seed has remained problematically unstable when compared to the other Loyal Legions. This has led to slow replacement of losses, and after the Second Founding the difficult creation of Successor Chapters. During the Second Founding the Wolves founded their first Successor, the Wolf Brothers, the fewest of all the other Legions save the Death Guard who were so diminished as to be unable to produce any Successor in the immediate aftermath of the Scouring.

In the 41st Millennium, the Space Wolves and their brothers in other Chapters field the fewest Space Marines in the entire Adeptus Astartes, easily outnumbered by all others. Yet, this minority has developed close bonds with one another. The exchange of Astartes to different Sixth Legion-descended Chapters has allowed the culture of Fenris to endure in some form in their Successors. It is not by chance those all of the worlds chosen by the Wolves' Successors are Death Worlds, most strikingly similar to Fenris. This has allowed the sons of Russ, numbering just under a hundred thousand Astartes, to be among the most fierce and deadliest of the Emperor's Angels of Death.

 _Eirik struggled through the cold, his enlarged legs moving through snow. Blood came off from every step, his body's Larraman cells attempting to counter the harsh climate. Night was falling, and with it, temperature. What was now painfully cold would be freezing death soon. But he was an Aspirant to the Space Wolves, and he would not fail. Groin covered by loincloth was all the clothing he wore._

 _The beast within yearned to break free, but following the teachings of the Wolf Priests he suppressed it, man over wolf. Based off his travel time in Thunderhawk, he estimated he was another two hundred kilometres away from the Aett. Within minutes of being dropped in the icy wasteland, he had found stone and sharpened it to make a primitive knife. It was a far cry from the weapons he had been training with, but better than nothing._

 _He kept moving, searching for a cave to rest in for the night. After another hour, and the night's temperature plummeting by the minute, he found one. He had to climb up dagger-sharp rocks to reach it, his hands bleeding and scarring as he hauled himself up. Limping towards the cave, he noted movement. Bringing the stone knife before him, he bared his fangs. The movement revealed itself to be a wolf. Eirik readied himself to fight, but noticed something about the wolf. Covering its backside was a rough, strong material that provided little real warmth. Glancing down at his loincloth he noted the similarity in colour and size._

 _The wolf noticed too, but it would not give up its territory. Eirik wouldn't have either if the roles were reversed. Backing out slowly, avoiding any sudden movements. He climbed down the rocks and made his way further into the wasteland, seeing rocks and some trees some four kilometres away. He stayed on alert, awaiting the subtle depression of snow beneath paw signalling the wolf hunted him, but he heard nothing._

 _As he neared sanctuary, he muttered the Wolf Priests' teachings. The last one to come was a warning, yet a statement too._

 _"There are no wolves on Fenris."_

 **Battlecry-**

While "For Russ and the Allfather," is the most common battlecry, it far from the only one, with feral howls being a favourite of many, especially the younger Astartes of the Chapter.


	15. Hand of Darkness

**Hand of Darkness**

In the outer reaches of a star system known to Imperial star charts as Danzen a ship emerged into real-space, hull black as pitch. The ebon coloured vessel's warp engine cycled down, plasma engines powering up. It moved in-system, shields down, weapons offline.

It moved past the first patrol squadron within eighteen minutes of exiting the warp. The four ship squadron consisted of two destroyers, a light cruiser and a heavy cruiser, their design clearly of standard Imperial Gothic template, whilst the far smaller, more silent running ship was smoother and more elegant in appearance. The squadron checked the IFF of the ship against the data-ident stored in their cogitators. When confirmed, the squadron's commander sent an encoded message to the armada's flagship. When confirmation came from the flagship, they allowed the newcomer to pass. Every squadron it passed allowed it entry further into the system, but IFF scans continued.

On board the dark starship's bridge stood a tall man, heavily muscled. He wore a mask of fang toothed bone and gunmetal, his uniform mirroring his vessel's colour. He watched patiently as he neared the heart of the 28th Expeditionary Fleet.

It has grown in recent months, he thought. It was only natural since Bellanor for Fulgrim's command fleet grow. Before the Dropsite Massacre, the 28th sported less than two hundred ships, ranging from the largest battle-barge of the Legiones Astartes to the bulk carrier transport of the Imperial Army. Now it neared over seven hundred, other fleets having been amalgamated with it and not all were Legiones Astartes.

Judging by the transports and estimates of soldiers on every ship, Fulgrim's fleet bolstered some seventeen million Army soldiers, at least. Astartes numbered likely around thirty thousand, most of who were of the III. He spotted several ships belonging to those of the other Enlightened Eight, though the vast majority were Black Legion auxiliary or Thousand Son. The bulk of the Third Legion was fighting alongside its allies in the primarch's opening offensive operations. _No, not simply a primarch anymore, but a War Commander._

Eversor, formerly known as Sire Eversor, stood on the command deck for the three hours it took to reach shuttle range with the _Pride of Chemos_. He noted five more Assassinorum ships, all sworn to him and the Phoenician, in formation near the armada's centre. More were undoubtedly on their way; it could take weeks for them all to arrive, however.

The civil war was barely three months old, yet already the Third Primarch had capitalised quickly on his victory on Bellanor, tens of thousands of worlds swearing allegiance to him and several hundred already conquered. It was a dawn of a new, more glorious era. And Eversor would play his role in it.

He made his way to the small hangar the starship boasted. Boarding it with several assistants carrying data-slates, the pilot took off from the Assassinorum ship. _Not Assassinorum anymore, something greater now._

Several moments of flight passed before the pilot spoke. " _Pride of Chemos_ , this is Shuttle 101A, asking permission to dock. We are carrying aboard Lord Eversor, over."

 _"Permission granted Shuttle 101A. I'm sending your coordinates. Welcome to the_ Pride _, over,"_ spoke a female voice on the other end, likely the vox officer or one of her many ensigns.

The docking was quick, efficient. When Eversor stepped out, walking down the shuttle's ramp an honour guard of ten legionnaires awaited him, five to each side. They were clad in purple-and-gold power armour, the sigil upon their chestplate a Phoenix of Chemos. Awaiting him was an Astartes lieutenant commander, rank epaulets shined to gleaming.

"Welcome aboard the _Pride_ , Lord Eversor. I am Lieutenant Commander Aldeker. I am to bring you before the War Commander." The Space Marine stepped aside to make room for Eversor to walk beside him.

"Is the War Commander in his strategic operations chamber?"

"No, he is overseeing Court."

The lieutenant commander was not exaggerating. As Aldeker escorted him inside, Eversor nodded, impressed by what he saw. "Welcome," muttered Aldeker, "to the Court of the Phoenician."

It was a large rectangular chamber in the heart of the Glorianna-class battleship. He assumed it had once been either a company-sized training room or perhaps a cargo hold. Either way, it had been converted into something else entirely. Victory banners from hundreds of campaigns hung, catching air from the recyclers. Three large Phoenix banners hung, dwarfing all others, one to each side with the final one hanging above an elevated dais where a throne of white veined obsidian lay occupied. In it sat Fulgrim the Phoenician, Third Primarch and Son of the Emperor, Illuminator, and War Commander of the Eight Legions.

Flanking him were Lord Commander Primus Eidolon to his right and First Captain Julius Kaesoron to his left. Behind them were other lord commanders, captains and others Eversor did not recognise. Amassing on the chamber's floor were hundreds of military or noble uniforms, few in any type of civilian clothing.

Before the throne were emissaries from a world, pledging their support. Fulgrim looked upon them, not as a dictator from afar but as an approachable monarch, his natural boundless charisma solidifying their allegiance to him with ease. The primarch's gaze flickered upward briefly, noting the arrival of Eversor and Aldeker. A slight nod came from the primarch, but turned his attention back to the emissaries. Eversor began to pay attention to what they were saying.

"…my world shall send one-tenth of our sons and daughters to fight beside you, my War Commander. Alongside a fifth of our industry set aside for construction of war materials for you. As Ventos of Cailbren, I pledge my allegiance to you." The man bowed, his lackeys doing the same. He noticed the man had never looked at Fulgrim directly, but rather at his booted feet. It was a common warning to those first meeting a primarch. To look upon one, unused to such grand beings or simply unprepared, had led to powerful men and women stammering like idiots, or forgetting how to speak. On occasion, fainting had occurred. Eversor had worked in the Imperial Palace for over a hundred and fifty years, and had seen several primarchs from afar, though the only one he had talked to had been Lorgar. With Lorgar it had been difficult, for he looked so much like Him, but he had coped with it, prevented himself from being overawed. But Fulgrim was different than the Aurelian. He radiated much of the same energy and greatness that Lorgar did, but he also seemed more imposing, more dominant. Not a scholar, but a ruler.

Eversor stood at the back amidst the crowds while Fulgrim answered the Ventos of Cailbren.

"That is music to my ears, Ventos Casikha." Fulgrim's face wrinkled in regret. "But we are in a war to secure the Throne away from the False Emperor. It will be costly, both in lives and material, but it must be fought for Mankind to survive, as I'm sure you understand." The Ventos' nod was quick, eager to please. "As such is the case, Cailbren will have to set aside quarter of its populace for enlistment and three-quarters of its industries for military construction. It will be years of hardship, yes, but once the war has been won, and the tyrant deposed, you will be greatly rewarded for assisting your new emperor. As the Second Emperor of the Imperium, I will not forget nor discard my friends and allies. Will you do this for me?" Fulgrim smiled warmly, and Eversor saw the tensing of the Ventos' shoulders unwind and the man became relaxed, bowing happily towards the primarch. Eversor put this information into the back of his mind, noting how easily Fulgrim had manipulated the man to give more and more, making it seem like a request. Eversor knew Fulgrim's claim and position were as of yet unsecure. His recent elevation to War Commander by his brothers, and claim to the Throne would have many quickly flock to his side, but would have just as many wanting to be convinced to join. They must be shown that they mattered, and would have a place of importance in the new Imperium, or at least have the leader of the new Imperium acknowledge them. The Emperor's distance to humanity in recent years would be His downfall.

Fulgrim motioned him aside, another replacing him. This next man wore a red tunic and a silver breastplate. A steel plate covered the left side of his face, obviously heavily scarred. The cape flowing from his shoulders was the same red as his tunic. When standing the appropriate distance away, the man knelt.

"My War Commander," he said, voice blunt but sure.

"Thaddeus, rise, my friend."

The man did so, waiting calmly.

Fulgrim rose from his throne, holding out one hand. Kaesoron set something there and the primarch walked down the few steps and several metres until he stood directly in front the mortal.

"Kneel."

The man did so instantly, clearly untroubled being this close to a primarch.

Fulgrim bent to put something upon Fayle's chestplate. "Thaddeus Fayle, as Lord Commander of the Archite Palatines, you have served me well for decades, never shirking from duty and you have followed me without hesitation onto the path of freedom for our species. For this continued loyalty and exceptional leadership skills, you are to be rewarded handsomely. You knelt as lord commander of the Palatines, now you will rise as First Marshal of the Imperium. When I take the Throne and become the Second Emperor, you will be commander of the entire Imperial Army, the highest ranking non-legionnaire in the new empire to come."

Applause greeted the announcement. Fulgrim bade the first marshal to rise. Turning to the crowd, the Phoenician spoke.

"Ladies and gentleman, friends and comrades all, I must humbly thank you for your support and attendance today. Return to your quarters or ships, tomorrow Court will be held a final time here in Danzen before the 28th Expeditionary Fleet deploys." A cheer rose from that. Some cheered that after Bellanor and the few battles fought since, the 28th would return to the forefront of the war. Others cheered their hate of the Emperor and His ten loyal sons, their hate of Him their most binding chain to Fulgrim. Eversor admired the skill with how Fulgrim warmed the crowd to him, binding their loyalties ever more tightly with but kind words. Soon those would dissipate and he would eventually order, not even pretending to phrase it as a request, and they would follow without pause. It was masterful manipulation.

"Hail Fulgrim!" someone from the crowd yelled, almost ecstatic in tone. The others yelled their own adorations, but were eventually guided out by waiting Phoenix Guard. With the last gone, the doors to the Court closed shut. Fulgrim turned to him, the demeanour now one full of command and little diplomacy.

"Report," the primarch said as he began to move towards the backend of the Court, where another door was located.

"New Dawn Protocol was a complete success in information gathering. It did not do as much damage as I had hoped, but it did far better than projected." Eversor followed three steps behind and to the side as protocol demanded. Aldeker withdrew from their party with his legionnaires, only Eversor's six assistants and Fulgrim's Phoenix Guard accompanying them.

"Was Malcador or Kane killed?"

"No, unfortunately." Eversor could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"You hate him?"

"Yes," the answer was immediate. "He has always looked down upon my Clade, ever limiting us and valuing the others over myself. I was nothing but a blunt tool to him, nothing more."

"You have not to worry about being held in reserve or undervalued. You are to be the director of a new Assassinorum."

"Thank you, my War Commander," and he meant it too.

They walked in silence for some time, until they came to the primarch's personal anteroom to his private chambers. There lay a desk to the side, piled with paper missives and data-slates. An advanced cogitator and hololithic projector lay upon it, allowing the Phoenician to do work in private if need be. Four squads of the Phoenix Guard stood outside the anteroom, with another standing in the room with them. Eversor agreed to their stringent protection. Even here, there could be no slacking. If Fulgrim were to be killed, all would be lost. None of the other rebel primarchs would be able to keep the rebellion united and driving towards Terra. Fulgrim was not simply the leader of the Heresy, he was the Heresy.

"Show me," he ordered and Eversor complied. He selected one of the data-slates, uploading its contents into the desk's cogitator. Vast amounts of information had been stolen from the Assassinorum facility in Hy Brasil and would take several hours to transmit it all to the flagship, so Eversor had brought six data-slates, each pertaining to a specific item of interest. The one he gestured to upload were fleet movements and orders from Terran Command, a majority being from the Warmaster and Praetorian. A rough estimate of fleet and army positions of Throne-loyal forces across the galaxy sprung into life from the hololith projector. It was not all of them, but it was a large minority, enough to help with several deployments in the coming months.

Fulgrim nodded appreciatively. "Good work, Eversor. You have proven your loyalties to my cause and to me. You shall be rewarded with what you desire." The War Commander turned from the hololith to Eversor.

"You will form an Assassinorum not limited by laws or decrees, nor directed by an old fool. As my master of Assassins, you will answer to none but me."

Eversor took this as his due.

"So, Sire Eversor, what will you create?"

Eversor winced at the title, and risked censure by speaking as he was about to do.

"My War Commander, I no longer hold the rank of sire as that was the name of Malcador's directors. Rather I desire a new rank, one that will strike fear into the hearts of friend and foe alike."

Fulgrim's mouth quirked in amusement.

"I have just the one for you, taken from Chemosian mythology. You shall be titled the Kheldall."

 _It was from an ancient Chemosian dialect, meaning Hand of Darkness, the chief servant of the goddess of shadow and night on Chemos._ The translation coming with ease to Eversor; he had spent the time in the warp studying Chemosian history and culture to better understand his new master.

"Thank you, my lord," Kheldall Eversor said, fist over heart in salute. The title linked him to Fulgrim, and he decided he would delve deeper into that world's history.

"My lord, I have a name for your new Dark Assassinorum. One that I believe you will like."

"Oh? What is it?"

"Oprechnyna."

Fulgrim seemed pleased at the name. "Named after the goddess herself, how apt."

"It seemed so to me, my War Commander."

"Good. Now get to work. The war is young and we are a long way from Terra. One of my Guard will show you to your quarters." The future emperor sat behind his desk, motioning for the new Kheldall's assistants to leave their data-slates for examination. He was already planning the next wave of offensives into loyalist territory, and would be there for hours readying the forces loyal to him to strike harder and farther into his father's domain. Eversor took this as his cue to leave and turned around to do so.

"And Kheldall Eversor," came the primarch's voice, stopping the Assassin leader in his tracks. He turned around. Fulgrim looked at him with an intensity that would have broken lesser men.

"Make the Imperium bleed."


	16. Anthology One

**Anthology One**

 **The Madness of Magnus**

The search neared three hours old. The stink of the hive's sub-level was palpable, cloying nostrils despite the helm's filtration system. Carrying his power sword, Death Guard Sergeant Ralgoth and four battle-brothers moved further into the sub-level slums. Beside the legionnaires were three women in gold and silver power armour. The Sisters of Silence carried bolters and a flamer, their swords housed in their sheaths for the moment.

The unlikely squad of Sister and legionnaire made their way to where the target had been identified. Ralgoth checked his auspex. "Four hundred metres," he said. Verbal confirmations came from the Space Marines and vox-clicks from the Sisters.

As the squad penetrated deeper and deeper into the subterranean slums of Zoweeto Hive in Sudafrik, they encountered more and more criminal elements. The rabble ran to hide, scared by the Astartes and the Sisters, feeling they were to be apprehended by Imperial justice. But they were mere termites compared to whom they were tracking.

Up ahead, a small child sat upon a rotting barrel, body thin and diseased, watching them with yellowed, sickly eyes. Ralgoth moved past him in a blur, mind focused on the task ahead. Yet as he ran through the trash and rot that made up this sub-level, he could not help but compare it to the city far above. Zoweeto Hive was prosperous in trade and economy, an example to all others on the Afrik continent. Many of its citizens enjoyed middle-class status, and its upper elite were some of the wealthiest on the Throneworld. From the hive spires to the upper sub-levels, prosperity reigned. A kilometre further into Terra's rock and life could not have been more different. Gangs fought for what few resources came from above, either stolen or discarded. Illegal activities, black market deals, and other such things were the norm here. Ralgoth would have recommended the despatching of the Adeptus Arbites to clear these levels out, but there were far more important matters to take care of.

Sister Superior Hangelia led their group, stopping by a collapsed archway.

 _Halt_ , she used Astartes battle-sign to convey her words. She moved to the crumbling stone, inspecting it.

 _Here. Come see._

Ralgoth walked to her, and looked at what drew her attention. A single eye, painted in blood.

"The Eye of Magnus."

Hangelia nodded in agreement. Her hand raised, T _he cult is near, its witch will be there._

"Understood," he turned to the others, waving them forward. "Move out."

They proceeded further into the level's depths. As they continued, Ralgoth saw more of the Eye of Magnus, daubed on many materials, always the same colour of crimson. Though the Cyclops targeted the Imperial Palace with his psychic might, Terra as a whole was affected. For millions it was relegated to only bad dreams, but some tens of thousands were driven mad by the nightmares. Suicides skyrocketed, as did murders. Most were arrested by the Arbites, usually killed to bring peace to their broken mind. Some, though, were untrained psykers who had avoided previous sweeps from the Silent Sisterhood. After the psychic barrage months ago, they now led bands of cultists, praising Magnus and performing dark sorcery in the depths and slums of Old Earth.

Lord Mortarion had ordered his legionnaires to work alongside the Sisters of Silence to eliminate the witch-cults, bringing order Imperial rule to large swathes of the Terran underground. When the Arch-Traitor arrived, Terra must be united if it was to survive the onslaught, not bothered by needless distractions. Therefore the Death Guard and the Sisterhood became the sharpened blades of a surgeon, removing the cankerous witchbreed and securing stability where chaos reigned.

 _Up ahead. There is movement and sound coming from a temple-like structure._

Ralgoth was impressed by the Sisters. They were mortal, but their training and equipment made them near-equal to the Astartes in many ways. Not in strength or warfare that the Legions typically waged but in lethality. He saw what she had seen. In the corner of this sub-level's hab-space, stood a structure with broken multi-coloured murals and a tall tower broken hallway. It indeed looked like a temple; likely built during Old Night, if not before considering how far below civilisation it was buried. Lights were alit inside and out, with braziers and petrochem generators providing it. Ralgoth's auto-senses showed that there were dozens of humans lying in wait, carrying rust-covered autoguns, sawed-off shotguns and las-muskets.

It was clear from their deployment and way they carried themselves that they were untrained. Vermin, armed poorly, defying an empire. If they weren't dissidents to the Imperium, it almost could have been a theatre play.

The legionnaires readied their weapons, the Sisters doing the same.

"We will lead, eliminating the cultists. You follow to deal with the psyker." Vox-clicks answered him. They had done this three times before, their unit efficient in excising cults.

"Go."

Ralgoth sprinted down the trash-heaped hill, the dirt a dirty yellow. Cultists rose from their positions to take aim, some forgetting to stay behind cover, and fired. Small calibre rounds and low-powered las-beams hit power armour, barely scratching it. Raising his bolt pistol, he fired three times causing three cultists' to fall with a fist sized hole in their chest, red mist hovered temporarily before it dissipated. His brothers did the same. Once they met the cultist line, they mag-locked their bolters, readying their serrated Barbaran combat knives. To the mortals it wasn't a knife, but a small sword and they ran in terror as the dirty white with green trim armoured transhumans butchered through their ranks.

One rushed Ralgoth with a shiv. The makeshift blade broke against his armoured back. Turning, he backhanded the cultist, breaking the neck with ease. Looking back toward the temple, he saw two cultists hefting a krak grenade launcher into place, aiming at him. Before the sergeant could move or fire, a bolt took the lead cultist in the head, showering the one behind him with gore and slivers of bone. Terrified, she attempted to run. Another bolt was fired, and she fell to ground, her upper body a ruin. Ralgoth nodded his gratitude to the three approaching Sisters, their bolters smoking from firing. Approaching the closed doors, they attempted to open it. It was locked. Two of Ralgoth's brothers shouldered through the barrier, splintering rotting wood and weak iron.

Before them knelt a hundred white robed cultists. The mortals ignored them, their heads down. At the far end of the temple a woman, robed in similar material but wearing a golden band with a scarlet Eye of Magnus upon its centre. Behind her was a cracked Aquila, its heads broken off and wings clipped. _What had this place been before, and for whom?_ he wondered. She looked at the Astartes in distaste and fear. In her hand rested a curved dagger, which she raised.

"Now, brothers and sisters! For Magnus, the Revealer and Sayer of Truths!" She plunged the sharp blade into her heart, the others following suit. Their deaths at first seemed suicidal, without purpose. As if they were trying to deny the Throne servants the satisfaction of eliminating them. But the room began to darken unnaturally. Behind the psyker's corpse, the defaced Aquila bubbled and hissed. A tear opened up in the fabric of space. Beyond, only darkness and bone-biting cold ruled. From the tear emerged a clawed black and blue hand, razor sharp feathers along the arm that followed.

The three Sisters immediately rushed to it. Ralgoth followed as well, trusting the Sisters in this matter of which they were the experts. The Sisters surrounded the tear, their Pariah gene hurting whatever was attempting to enter the Materium.

The Sister with a flamer brought her weapon to bear.

"Burn it."

Ralgoth watched as the Sister bathed the creature in flames. It shrieked and withdrew back into the dark realm. The Sisters neared the tear, their mere presence forcing it to shrink into itself. When it closed fully, a sigh hissed through the air.

"What was that?" he asked. The Sisters seemed unsurprised at what happened. They exchanged glances.

The Sister Superior signed to them, _It was a creature of the warp, a vile monstrosity that used the sacrifices as a key to enter our plane of existence._

Ralgoth looked around the temple, disgusted by what it now. "This place is tainted. We must burn it the ground."

All agreed and they set fire via flamer and melta-charges that caught onto the wood. As they left, Hangelia motioned him aside. They left the burning structure, leaving to return to the surface.

 _We have another name for them, the warp-spawn._

Ralgoth was silent for a moment. She continued.

 _The name is tied to the horrors of Old Night and before. It goes against the ideals of the Imperial Truth._

"Tell me."

 _Daemon._

Ralgoth accepted the name in stride. It fit perfectly to what he witnessed. The name reverberated with him; it was a more accurate description than any other that came to mind. It pulsed within and he knew future generations would know them by that name. Daemon. Daemon.

Daemon.

* * *

 **Oathbound**

The dawn broke through the clouds, lighting upon the spires, towers and domes of the Imperial Palace. Sol shined across the system, a fiery orb that brought light to the darkness of the void.

Nathaniel Garro sat cross legged on a mat, facing east. It was peaceful. He had few moments of such peace these past months. He was clad in Legion coloured robes, before him lay his sword. He reached for it and began to sharpen it with a whetstone. It was unnecessary of course, unneeded. He could have had a serf do it, sharpen it with a precision machine or las-sharpening, but he felt a calmness in doing in the act. Slide, slide, slide, twist, slide, slide, slide, twist. An hour passed, the sun having fully risen above the horizon.

Glancing at the ornate geared-driven clock above the bed, he rose. It was time. Donning armour proceeded quickly. Armed and armoured, his equipment cleaned and shined to gleaming, he left the quarters. Moving through corridors, he watched teams under the supervision of Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists begin the fortification of this Palace sector.

Garro did not sigh, though he regretted that the majesty of the Emperor's home was being turned into not a residence of governance but a fortress. The ideals of the Imperium, of Unity and a better future of Mankind were gone, never to return. Now… now the best that could be done was to preserve what remained.

Nearing his destination, Custodes stood guard. He passed by them into the Inner Palace. Garro moved swiftly. Beside the door he wished to enter stood two of the Deathshroud, manreapers crossed, barring entry.

"I have come by order of the Death Lord."

"Who comes?" one intoned, external speakers purposefully morphing the voice.

"Battle-Captain Nathaniel Garro."

"You are welcomed, then." Their scythes uncrossed and he walked past them, pushing open the heavy oak doors. Four more Deathshroud stood in the corners of the room.

Mortarion stood there, looking out the windows. The primarch turned as Garro entered. Garro saluted the Lord Reaper. Mortarion grasped _Perseverance_ , leaning on the wall near him. The battle-captain stood still, awaiting his father's ruling.

"The rank of First Captain has long been an honoured position within the Fourteenth Legion. Geldon. Janklar. Capaal. These Astartes were brave men, loyal legionnaires to the Emperor and to me." The primarch moved closer to his son, manreaper in hand. "But that title has been tainted by treachery. Calas Typhon. He is now known as Typhon the Black, a stain upon the Legion, the corruptor of my sons." The pommel of Perseverance hit the ground, anger at the betrayal clear in the Death Lord's stance.

After a moment, he continued. "The rank of First Captain no longer exists in the Death Guard. The powers and duties associated with it therefore go to the next ranking officer."

Mortarion rested the blade on Garro's left shoulder pad.

"You are no longer Battle-Captain of the Seventh Company. Instead, you are Commander of the Fourteenth Legion."

The pommels of all six Deathshroud hit the floor in salute.

Mortarion's gaunt face stared at him. "Are you ready, Commander Garro, for the battles to come?"

"I am."

Mortarion nodded, knowing what his son would say.

"Then prepare for deployment."

* * *

 **Trial's Aftermath**

Thick chains shackled him to the floor. Staring at the metal deck, the prisoner became aware of others approaching. He stood, doing as he was ordered for anytime someone neared his cell. He would not beg, nor act defiant. He was content. Today was the day of his execution.

The guards unlocked the door, swinging it open to admit two of the Deathshroud. The primarch's bodyguards unshackled him from the wall and escorted him to where he would die. They did not talk to him, nor did he to them. All was silent, excluding echoing footsteps.

The seemingly endless corridor of metal was interrupted by a long plexiglass window. Pluto, the Sol System's first line of defence, shone faintly in the pitch blackness of deep space. Loyalist squadrons patrolled the area, while on Pluto itself stood long range augur arrays and warp-scryers. The prison void station _Cerberus_ orbited the planet, jails largely empty. It held only twenty-six prisoners, all of them former Death Guard.

The shackled transhuman was pulled into the barren cargo hold, everything having been removed for the execution. Twenty-five others were already shackled. They came from different squads, different great companies. The only thing they held in common was their loyalty to Typhon. They had been there at Bellanor, they had slaughtered their brethren. There were different reasons. Some did it for power; many were believers in the Grandfather. More and more were starting to believe that. And he saw it happening, even before the Massacre. He may be loyal to Typhon, but he did not believe in that path. He sided with the First Captain because he had saved him in battle, cared for him, inquired about his well-being from time to time. It was more than he ever got from a distant and uncaring father.

So he volunteered. Go to Terra with the survivors, infiltrate and wreak destruction. Mortarion may be distant and cold, but he was intelligent. He knew there would be dissenters amongst the ranks and had swept through them, hunting any that may have been traitors. The shackled legionnaire did not know if all were caught, but many were. He had been caught attempting to sabotage the warp reactor aboard a XIV destroyer. He did not resist when they arrested him. His fate had been sealed the moment he boarded one of the last dropships leaving Rose City.

The Deathshroud forced him to his knees, locking him into place. Watching them was rank after rank of Death Guard, not all of them, but easily a thousand. At their head stood the recently promoted Commander Garro and the Death Lord, watching them. When Deathshroud withdrew, the primarch walked to the first prisoner.

There was no speech, for there was no need for one. All that needed to be said had been spoken during the Trials. Today they died. Mortarion raised Perseverance and beheaded the first. The Death Lord made his way down the row of prisoners, mirroring that first action. Before too long, Mortarion stood above him. The last shackled legionnaire looked up to the one who was father in name only. Those colourless eyes looked at him, mouth guard hissing as air circulated through it.

The scythe rose and he accepted it. Bending his neck, revealing the pale skin, he readied himself for death. _Perseverance_ fell.

* * *

Mortarion stepped away from the corpses. Motioning to Garro, the chains were unlocked. With their bodies no longer chained to the deck, Mortarion spoke aloud. "Vent."

The void-sealed cargo hold doors opened and the corpses were pulled away by rapid decompression. Mortarion and his sons remained where they were, boots mag-locked to the floor.

"Such is the fate of traitors," he muttered.

* * *

 **Resilience**

The surgical operating chamber was located deep in the _Terminus Est_. In it were three occupants. Two were Apothecaries, the third a restrained Space Marine, drugged into unconsciousness. Above the operating room a viewing room was located, dividing the two chambers with plexiglass. Inside sat Calas Typhon, former First Captain of the Death Guard and now Master of the Black Legion.

Typhon interlocked his fingers beneath his chin, staring down at the Deathshround sergeant. Baen was resistant to the power of Nurgle. Such resistance was incredibly rare, and would need to be studied more in depth to better overcome it.

The Apothecaries looked upward to the viewing room.

"Awaken him." The order carried through to the vox speakers in the room.

One of the Apothecaries inserted a needle into the unconscious Baen. After a moment, the Deathshroud awoke with a start. He thrashed for a moment until it became clear he wouldn't be able to escape.

Baen looked at his captors, then to where Typhon sat watching.

"Why? Why?!" the Astartes yelled, red-tinged froth spilling from the mouth. The restraints creaked in holding him, but they held as intended.

Typhon ignored him, looking instead at the other two Astartes. "Begin."

They started by lifting a vial of cloudy green liquid, its reinforced glass container already corroding. The vial was injected into Baen's bloodstream and that was when the screaming truly began.

Typhon watched, enraptured by what he was witnessing. The legionnaire resisted the Grandfather's concoction, a potent one at that. Baen's body convulsed, blood dripping from his mouth and nose. Yet he survived.

"Fascinating," he muttered, leaning forward. The Apothecaries injected him with a purging chemical, then readied another vial, this one a reddish-brown vial. Inside, small micro-organisms swam, waiting to implant themselves within a host.

The experiments would continue and Typhon would learn from them, and using that knowledge he would spread Nurgle's gifts to all.


	17. The Burden of Serpents

**The Burden of Serpents**

 _Star System SP43-19, Segmentum Pacificus_

In the deep void at the edge of the Segmentum Pacificus, a dropship emerged from a goliath of military supremacy. This was the _Beta_ , co-capital ship of the Alpha Legion. Its escorts intermingled with the greater fleet, battle-groups seemingly switching from the first to the second fleet, seemingly at random. But there was a plan there, always a plan. Hundreds of warships lay in the darkness of the void, much of the Legion's strength, but certainly not all of it. Their augur arrays scanned, fighter squadrons patrolled, and destroyers and frigates roamed through the outer edge of the star system. Even here, nothing could be put to chance.

The dropship passed by over two hundred Legion warships, entering the primary hangar bay of its sister-ship, the _Alpha_. The figures that emerged from the Stormbird numbered a dozen, their armour black as night, their variant reducing noise and made more compact than the standard battle-plate.

The leader of the legionnaires noted the strange silence that prevailed through the ship, visible in the hesitancy of the mortal crew and the quiet contemplation of the Astartes. The leader could read their discomfort and thoughtfulness in their stance, looking past the training and discipline. He knew them well, for he was Omegon and they were his sons.

Oh, there was noise, it was impossible to cease entirely. Undoubtedly, in the engine room, crew officers and tech-priests were working diligently in adding the latest modifications to the plasma drives, vastly lowering emission visible to sensors. Amongst the warship's heavy ordinance, previously unknown and deadly weapons were added, joining and on occasion supplanting Imperial technology. Some whispered of the foulness in touching xenos tech, but not very loudly and never around the Astartes. Omegon understood their concerns. Many a damnation had been willingly accepted by the XX during the Great Crusade for the betterment of Mankind. This was merely another.

There was no welcoming party near the dropship. Why would there be? What would be the point? Unlike the others, the XX did not treat their primogenitors as kings or almost divine beings. Were they the lord primarchs? Yes. Were they obeyed without question? Yes, of course. Were they the masters of their craft? Obviously. Then there was no need to add ceremony and pomposity to Omegon's arrival.

The Astartes he passed came to attention when they saw him, giving slight tilt of the heads in respect. Some brought fist to chest, though not all did. The mortal crew, however, did kneel or bow, prostrating themselves like animals before their owner. Omegon frowned at that, his features covered by his helm. Was not the point of the Great Crusade to bring enlightenment and equality to the Mankind? He did not blame them, for they were only human, driven by impulse and evolution to seek something stronger than they to protect and for them to give service to. It was the way of things, and likely would never change. The mortals did not know a primarch walked before them, not consciously, but not even they would give such prostration to any Space Marine of the Legion. Later, if they remembered the act, they would joke amongst themselves, or ask why they had bowed to an unadorned Space Marine more fervently than they would have a Hostmaster. But it would fade, within a day they would forget they ever saw a taller than average black armoured Astartes walking past them. Such was Omegon's role, to be there yet not be noticed. A gift given from father to son, though Omegon did not know if He did it intentionally. The primarch preferred it, and was better at it than his twin. Many a time it was more beneficial to be the unremembered shadow than the face of a conquering army.

Situated nearly half a kilometre away below the ship's bridge stood a sealed chamber. Here none but legionnaires and the most trusted of mortals ventured. Unadorned, it was nevertheless guarded by two Astartes wearing Cataphractii Terminator Armour. Lernaean, jaws of the Hydra. The unit was virtually unknown outside the Legion, as were Omegon's Effrit Stealth Squad. These were the bodyguards of Alpharius. Not even they knew which of the two primarchs they guarded at any one time, the only thing they knew was they were the protectors of the more visible primarch who called himself Alpharius, regardless if it was truly Alpharius or Omegon.

Plans within plans, contingencies within contingencies, and secrets within secrets. It was the way of the Hydra, now and always.

The two guards did not bow, but raised their power spears off the ground, bringing their spears down sharply in salute, the sound echoing softly. The chamber's door opened as he neared and he passed the guards. The door hissed shut behind him.

Standing in the centre was himself, or rather his other self. Both were the exact same height, both had tanned skin, shaved heads and both sported aqua-green eyes. Alpharius, both in title and true-name, looked up as Omegon entered, nodding, then returned his attention to the creature before him.

The creature's name was Athithirtir, an Antedil, and more importantly was a member of the Cabal. The xenos was smaller than Omegon's palm, looking like a hand without a thumb. It resided inside a gaseous orb that floated in the air.

Omegon took his place beside his twin, removing his helm to also stare at the alien, judging it.

"You lied to us," Alpharius said. It was not accusatory, nor angry, at least on the surface. Only Omegon could sense the rage boiling beneath his twin's calm exterior.

Athithirtir seemed to sense it, his species being highly evolved empaths and shook within his orb. Was it fear? It was hard to tell with something that did not have a proper physiology.

+No, we did not,+ sent Athithirtir.

"No? Then how do you explain that what was prophesised, what the Cabal prophesised, has failed to become reality?" Alpharius' voice became even more calm, almost uncaring; the primarch's rage in check only by the strength of his emotional discipline. The xenos twitched in the orb again. Yes, it was terrified.

+The war has come, as we knew it would. That was inevitable, nearly every reality and future the Cabal have looked into have shown us that the Imperium would tear itself apart by fratricidal civil war.+

Omegon spoke for the first time, "'Nearly every?' Explain."

+Over four thousand possibilities were discovered and examined, though there are countless more. Only three had no Heresy like event.+

Silence reigned for a moment. "And in those futures, did Horus lead the rebellion?" Alpharius asked quietly.

+Yes. He has led the Heresy in more timelines than any other primarch, though three of your brothers come close to matching him.+

"So there have been other Heresies, others chosen by Chaos." Omegon stated. "You said it would be Horus. But the Warmaster does not lead the rebellion, Fulgrim does. So, effectively, you did lie."

+No!+ the xenos pulsed exasperation. +All the signs for Horus' fall were there. His soul had slowly been damned and corrupted for centuries, guided by Chaos. He was at the cusp of corruption. All he needed was a push.+

"Davin."

+Yes. That is where it was to begin. He was wounded but events did not follow as predicted. Instead of turning to the Primordial Annihilator, he had been sent to the Emperor to be healed. Now any possibility for corruption is forever gone, his soul has been cleansed of doubt and ambition tempered. The chances of this occurring in this reality were less than one percent. We could not know that Garviel Loken would alter everything so drastically.+

"But he did and now we are stuck with the aftermath," whispered Alpharius, jaw clenched in thought.

+This can be recovered. The rebels can still win. Their victory will set the foundation for the elimination of the Annihilator…+

"Stop," ordered Omegon.

Athithirtir twitched at the primarch's words but did become mind-silent. Omegon's thoughts raced, considering probabilities and courses of action. An idea struck him.

"You said that the Cabal looked into other futures, other realities."

+Yes.+

"Were you there? Did you witness them?"

+Yes,+ it repeated

"Show them to us."

+Why?+ The xenos stirred in its orb, curious.

"So we can find answers."

The Antedil moved around its orb for a moment, as if in deep thought. After a moment it settled.

+What I am about to show you will be events and possibilities that may have taken place. Due to the nature of delving, you will only see events concerning your person through your own eyes.+

Athithirtir hesitated, as if unsure.

+It will be painful.+

"Then we'll feel pain," responded Alpharius.

+Very painful+

"Then we'll feel a lot of pain," replied Omegon.

+Very well. Ready yourself.+

Omegon tensed, waiting. The waiting stretched from seconds to a minute. Furrowing his brow, he stepped closer to the orb.

"When will-"

Colours swarmed his vision, sounds and even smells. He knew he was in the secluded chamber aboard the Alpha, but he could feel a pulling, a shifting to somewhere else, but one familiar to him.

 _-Shift-_

Omegon stared at the petrified body of Roboute Guilliman, frozen in stasis, face wracked with agony. The fatal wound Fulgrim dealt him was clearly visible and it gave Omegon… satisfaction to see his greatest critic and traitor to the Imperium suffer such a fate.

"What now for the Alpha Legion?" Fulgrim inquired. The Emperor's Children Primarch was resplendent in gold and purple armour, the Palatine Aquila a symbol of hope and strength on the Third Son. Omegon wore a simple hooded blue-black cloak. They were in the Sanctum Imperialis, their father's half-corpse being guarded by rank after rank of the Custodians.

"We will ensure that this does not happen again," replied Omegon. "We will find them, and we will punish them. All of them."

 _Shift_

A battleship bearing the black fist of the Seventh Legion fell through Terra's atmosphere, ablaze and breaking apart. Omegon moved silently across the rad-wastes of the Goabi Desert, moving towards the rendezvous point.

A fair fate for traitors, he thought, watching as the ship impacted hundreds of kilometres away, its plasma drives igniting and an atomic mushroom giving light to darkness. The traitors beseeched their dark gods for strength, but such prayer would not save them from the Emperor's justice. Not even the pleasure and pain obsessed Fists would desire the fate they would now go to.

It took many hours more until their objective came into view: the Imperial Palace. The walls stretched across the horizon, far beyond even his sight. As they neared, a small gateway opened in the smooth adamantium and stone, hidden to all eyes, both flesh and augmetic. His twin stood before him, wearing the armour of a common legionnaire.

"Come, brother, we must hurry. The Warmaster is preparing for the final assault. His Blood Angels carve a crimson path to the Inner Palace. Perturabo calls for us. Come."

Alpharius stepped aside, allowing Omegon and the several hundred Alpha Legion Astartes that followed him to enter the Palace. The final days of the Heresy now began.

 _Shift_

He watched as the Emperor cut down the marble representations of His seven treacherous sons. Statues of the Fifth, the Sixth, the Tenth, the Eleventh, the Fourteenth, the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Primarchs fell to the ground, broken, never to be remade. Standing beside and towering over Omegon, Sanguinius and Horus watched on silently, as were all who stood in the Investiary.

To all present, he was Alpharius, but the true Alpharius was hunting down the Arch-Traitor's most dangerous sons. Solaro An, Verano Ebb, Alvarex Maun, Branne Nev, the list was long and each son of the Betrayer that died before they reached sanctuary in the Eye of Woe was one less thorn in the Imperium's side. While most of the primarchs sought to rebuild and fortify the Imperium, the twins looked to the future. It was no coincidence that the Alpha Legion would work hand in hand with the new Inquisition's intelligence services; they had the experience and the network to assist. Let Guilliman administrate, let Horus command the armies and fleets, let Sanguinius act as Imperial Prince, let Angron break any who dares defy the Emperor, but Alpharius Omegon would strike from the shadows to make the enemies of the Imperium fear the Hydra, and in turn the Emperor's Will.

The Emperor made a speech and during it Omegon saw his father look at him, making him wonder: does He know about me? Does He know there were in fact twenty-one primarchs, not twenty? When that gaze left him, Omegon was becoming increasingly assured that the Emperor did know but kept it secret, allowing the twin primarchs of the XX to operate in secret for the betterment and survival of all Mankind…

 _Shift_

Omegon knelt before the throne of ebony and crimson.

"Rise, Alpharius," commanded Warmaster Horus Lupercal.

Omegon rose. Horus sat there staring at him. Those eyes were so intense, so full of hate. Even through the warp, he could sense his brother's rage. If anything the warp magnified the emotion. Horus pulsed like a beating heart, a beacon of death in a realm of madness.

The Heresy was almost at its end. The Nine Legions neared Terra, already skirmishes deep within the Segmentum Solar were occurring between forces loyal to Horus and those loyal to the Emperor, led by Leman Russ. The Emperor remained incommunicado and the galaxy burned. The death toll reached uncountable trillions but it was almost at an end.

Omegon worried about the path they took, but Alpharius Omegon took the path as one mind, one soul, and would see the Cabal's predicted future come to fruition. It must come to pass, for the galaxy's sake.

"Tell me, brother," rumbled Horus, "of your plan to assault Terra."

Omegon readied himself. The operation was decades in the planning and implementation, many years before Horus ever fell to the Primordial Annihilator. The reasoning had been different for the time, a precaution, one never to be used. Now, it was being repurposed for the Warmaster's ambition. It was only one of several contingencies the Alpha Legion had put into place since its union with its primogenitors.

 _May He forgive us for our sins…_ thought Omegon as he began to detail the basic outline of the plan.

 _Shift_

The gilded corridors of Achamaerea were lined with the Phoenix Guard. They watched him, wary and judging. Striding down the corridor he approached the overly-large doors with silver gilt.

The flanking Guards opened it to him, announcing him to the court.

"Alpharius, Primarch of the Alpha Legion."

The words echoed in the chamber and all in it fell silent. For many, this was the first, and last, time they would see the secretive lord of the XX. Hundreds were in court, most blue-blooded nobles that ruled entire sub-sectors and sectors. Once their allegiance had been to the Master of Mankind, but now it was to him.

He, of course, was Fulgrim the Phoenician, Primarch of the Sons of Fulgrim, Illuminator, Speaker of Truths, and Sovereign of the Imperium of Man. Omegon despised this brother, but must follow him in this war to ensure the victory of the traitors and thus laying the seeds to the downfall of the Ruinous Powers.

Behind and to the left of Fulgrim stood First Captain Julius Kaesoron, who watched the court with interest and showing a keen mind in that gaze. _He will be important in the years to come, I think._ Beside and to the right of the self-titled Sovereign stood Lorgar Aurelian, his armour more humble but no less powerful than what Fulgrim wore. Dark crimson and gunmetal trim was the Seventeenth's armour, adorned with Colchisian runes, and a heavy tome shackled to his waist. Illuminarum was in hand, but was more a staff of office rather than weapon presently. Though everyone looked to Fulgrim for he was the visible leader, Omegon knew Lorgar to be the silent power behind the throne.

"Ah, Alpharius, it is good to finally see you," Fulgrim said with a hint of mockery, a sly smile touching his perfect visage.

The court of fools laughed, all save the Astartes of the various Seven Legions that now made up the rebellion. Some smiled, particularly the Sons of Fulgrim, but they did not cackle like the others.

Omegon bowed slightly, but did not kneel. Fulgrim frowned for a moment at the lack of subservience, the crowd whispering in hushed tones, and Lorgar's eyes twinkled with amusement. If Fulgrim sought to usurp the Emperor, he must do so with his brothers as equals, not subjects. Omegon could have knelt to the Warmaster, for Horus was a close brother and had the rank and presence to require and expect subservience. Fulgrim did not, and Omegon would not immerse himself any further in the charade.

The Third Primarch stood and walked down the marble steps that led to his throne. He walked to Omegon, resting a hand on Omegon's shoulder. The disappointment and soft anger that had been in Fulgrim's eyes only minutes before were gone, now he was the perfect statesman and commander. Fulgrim began to guide Omegon back to his throne.

"Come, brother, there is a war to win and we have much to discuss."

Fulgrim wasn't Horus, but he would have to do.

 _Shift_

Terra screamed in agony, even now, months after Horus' victory. Warmaster no longer, but Second Emperor of the Imperium. Many differentiated it with the old Imperium by calling it the Horusian Empire, but never around the new monarch's loyal henchmen.

Alpharius Omegon stood on a shielded balcony in one of the Palace's many outlying spires. They watched as massive bulk carriers of the Dark Mechanicum and the Iron Warriors arrived and departed the surface, taking rubble away and bringing in fresh material. They went about rebuilding the ruined Palace.

Perturabo seemed to take a brooding pleasure in tearing down the remaining undamaged sections of the Palace, then building it in his own design. By all accounts, Horus was pleased, though the new Emperor was becoming more and more distant as his hold over the Imperium tightened.

The Heresy might have been won, but it was far from over. Roboute Guilliman, Lion El'Jonson, Rogal Dorn, Jaghatai Khan and Leman Russ had united their broken Legions in Ultramar, making it near impenetrable. It would take years, decades perhaps, to finally beat the remaining loyalists. Vulkan had disappeared and not even the Alpha Legion could find him. Not yet, at least. Corvus Corax was being hounded by a combined force of World Eaters, Death Guard and Night Lords. The Raven would fall soon, either in death or captured and tortured by Curze. Omegon hoped it would be the former. He might be a traitor in name whose actions had seen countless billions killed, but he would not want his brother to feel needless pain. If Corax was captured by the Night Haunter, then Omegon would authorise one of the many sleeper agents within the sadistic VIII to grant Corax eternal peace.

The Imperium may now be ruled by Horus, but tens of thousands of worlds through the galaxy resisted, many of which resisted with weapons and support given to them by the XX. The age of blood and betrayal would not end so easily. In two or three generations, Horus would launch a war of self-hate that would make the Heresy look like the opening skirmish. It would destroy humanity but save the galaxy.

Omegon looked to his twin, who looked back.

"Everything is proceeding as planned."

"Yes," said Alpharius, his voice one of sorrow at what they had done, but unflinching in what they must do. "It won't be long now. Then it can end." Both primarchs felt the gravity of those words. Years of lies and planning would culminate in genocide on an extinction level. But it was for a cause greater than themselves.

"For the Emperor," they said in unison, continuing to watch as the last vestiges of their father's dream was torn down by a mad son's greed.

 _Shift_

The _Beta_ was moving towards the next target, the next conquest of the Warmaster.

Deep within the armoured confines of his ship, Omegon looked before him. Two sets of armour plate lay on racks before him. One was the blue-black of the Legion, the other unpainted grey. He stared at them with much intensity.

This was the decision, the deciding moment. One represented a future long planned and guided, one of death, despair and finality. The other was of rebirth, hope, and possibility. He stared at them for a long time.

Alpharius' choice was still the same they had together so long ago. But Omegon felt doubts. He, a demigod by any definition, felt doubt. He was unaccustomed to it, but nevertheless it was there.

Hours passed, or was it days? It was hard to tell; the chamber alit only by lumen strip. Finally, he made his decision.

Standing up, he moved to one of the armour racks and donned on the plate. He did it by himself, which made it take longer than if he had serfs to assist, but he felt purity in doing so. This was a decision not made as one half of a mind, but his mind entirely. It was liberating in that regard.

Once finished, he looked at the other, unused armour. Putting a hand on it, he pushed it to the ground. Metal clacked and scraped, but he did not care. He was his own man, now. He was finally free.

- _Shift-_

The visions ended suddenly.

+Those are only some of what I witnessed. You will need a small break to rest the mind. To push without rest would unhinge anyone, even those with your physiology.

Neither primarch spoke for several moments. Alpharius inhaled, Omegon exhaled. They glanced at one another and an agreement was made, wordless and made only by facial cues. Omegon's right hand surged towards the alien orb, grasping it and began to apply heavy pressure. Alpharius' left hand was mirroring his own on the other side. The glass-like material began to crack and gases hissed out.

+What are you doing?+ Athithirtir pulsed panicky. +Stop!+

"We will not be puppets…" Alpharius said coolly.

"…we will not be slaves," Omegon intoned solemnly.

"We are Hydra," they said in unison.

The orb shattered, their gauntlets coming together to squish the Antedil. Bright yellow blood dripped from their gauntlets onto the floor as they separated, mild acidic blood scarring the ceramite. Athithirtir fell to the floor, dead, blood pooling from its corpse.

Alpharius Omegon looked upon the xenos, then at each other. They did not speak for some time, just looking, examining.

"We will continue as before. Already our plans are in motion. No matter who leads the rebellion, we must assist them, more so now than originally planned. Nothing has changed." Alpharius paused for a moment. "Are we in agreement on this matter? We must be one mind on this."

"I am in agreement, brother."

Alpharius nodded at that and left the room, his Lernaean guards trailing him.

 _Nothing has changed? No, that was wrong. Everything had changed,_ Omegon thought as he too left the room.

 _Everything has changed. I have changed._


	18. Anthology Two

**Anthology Two**

 **The Unborn Empire**

Leman Russ crept alongside the shadowed walls of the great hall he found himself in, like a predator carefully stalking its prey, eyes darting about and senses being used to their full genhanced effect. One hand was on his sword, the other clutching his bolt pistol. Behind him trailed thirteen of the _Vlka Fenryka_ , each moving as quietly as their skills would allow, which were great as they were amongst the best in the Legion. The infiltrators stuck to the shadows, moving quietly and swiftly.

They had entered the fortress-monastery with no alarm being sounded. Four servants had been taken care of while the Wolves stalked inwards. They were not dead, merely unconscious and their bodies hidden well. Russ did not want blood to be spilt, not yet at least, not unless he was delayed.

Once again, Russ admired what his brother had built here. The Fortress of Hera was not only one of the strongest and most well-defended bastions in the Imperium, it was also incredibly beautiful. Mosaics depicting the rise of Konor, the betrayal of Gallan, and the ascension of Guilliman as Battle-King of Macragge lined the walls of hall. It was a risk to move in so public a place, but they had to hurry to reach their target, lest the servants' sleeping forms were discovered.

Russ knew the Wolves' strike-team were close, he could smell his brother's scent nearby in the Lord of Ultramar's study. Rich Legion banners flanked the opening doorway that led further into Guilliman's private sanctum. It was flanked by warriors of the Suzerain Invictarus, the Invictarii. Even here, deep within their fortress-monastery, the Ultramarines did not neglect their primarch's security. Several assassination attempts by the traitors had been founded and stopped by these noble sons during the five years of civil war, though several were able to get to within reach of the Thirteenth Primarch. None had succeeded. Their plumed cobalt helms shined with the light of torches and glow-globes throughout the great hall.

If he had the time, Russ would have found a way past them, to reach his brother without making the XIII aware, but he could not risk-

Klaxons began to go off in the distant, quickly spreading to where they rang loudly in the hall. More of the Invictarii emerged from the sanctum, with several squads of regular line-legionnaires coming from elsewhere in the Fortress to reinforce. Heavy bolters, slaved to servitors controlled by a Techmarine, swivelled back and forth, awaiting any attack.

The element of surprise was gone. Now it was time to improvise. Growling, Russ emerged from the shadows, his sons following without question.

The blue, white and gold armoured Space Marines bearing the Ultima upon their chestplate, watched cautiously as the Wolves approached.

"Do not make the first move, but if they attack, kill them all," Russ barked in Fenrisian battle-talk over a secure link. Guttural grunts were the expected response. Likely the Ultramarines had decrypters and translators on hand monitoring all frequencies, but it would take them time to decipher the speech into base Fenrisian and from there into Low Gothic. By then, it would be too late.

An Invictarii sergeant moved forward, hand raised to stop Russ.

"My lord primarch, please halt. There has been a security breach-"

"Don't touch or impede me."

The legionnaire paused, but continued forward steadily after but a moment. Russ growled, but the Ultramarine was either incredibly brave or incredibly foolhardy. It was almost admirable. The legionnaire's fingers grazed the wolf pelts covering Russ' armour.

Russ backhanded him, sending the Invictarii flying left into the marble wall, cracks splitting and ruining the artwork that decorated it. The legionnaire sergeant lay on the floor, leg twitching, and blood pooling from the indented armour. He lived, albeit barely. Two battle-brothers grabbed their sergeant, pulling him to an Apothecary who stood nearby, their weapons aimed at the Wolves. The sound of blades being drawn and bolters raised echoed in the vast, multi-tiered level chamber.

Russ grimaced and withdrew _Mjanar_ , gripping it in two hands. The pack he brought with him covered his sides and rear, ready for a charge to come to them, or for them to charge at the other legionnaires. More boot steps from behind signalled Ultramarine reinforcements coming to encircle the VI legionnaires.

He did not want this to come to pass, but he must seek the truth of the matter. Was Guilliman a traitor? Russ had been on Macragge for weeks and all had been going well, their combined VI and XIII fleet soon to depart to cleanse Ultramar when Russ found evidence of Guilliman's ambition and potential treachery.

He had wanted to confront his brother privately, but if his brother truly was a traitor-in-waiting, then stalling or approaching cautiously would have been too risky. Russ knew that if fighting happened, the Vlka Fenryka would die to the warrior this day, with none to sing of their tales of heroism and bravery in the sagas. But if Guilliman was planning to betray the Imperium and the Allfather, then Russ would kill him before he too died.

The two opposing forces were stalling, not wishing to make the first lethal blow. It became tense, almost electric. More and more Ultramarines arrived, filling the railings and balconies with hundreds more legionnaires. Heavy bolters and lascannons propped against railings to aim down upon them.

"Hold your fire," commanded a demigod's voice.

Roboute Guilliman emerged from the doorway into the sanctum, eyeing the situation before him. His eyes narrowed at seeing the broken-bodied Invictarii sergeant in the corner being tended to an Apothecary. The Lord of Ultramar motioned for his Ultramarines to make a path, and he walked towards his brother.

"Leman."

"Roboute."

"You have some explaining to do, brother."

Russ moved closer, causing the Ultramarines to refocus their weapons at the Sixth Primarch. "As do you, Roboute, as do you."

Guilliman led Russ to his study, their sons following.

"Stay outside," Guilliman ordered. The Invictarii were clearly unhappy by this but complied nonetheless. Russ motioned for his Wolves to remain as well. The Wolf King moved inside the study, looking about the room. Data-slates and paper documents dominated the large desk, ten metre windows behind it giving an excellent view of Magna Macragge Civitas.

"Why have you come into my home, uninvited, wounded a son of mine, and act as if I am your enemy!" Guilliman demanded, hands clenched behind his back. The Thirteenth Son stood behind his desk, looking out the window. After a moment, when no answer came, he turned about to face his brother.

Russ sized his brother up. He could take him. Brilliant mind, administrator and strategist that his brother was, Guilliman could not survive a brawl with Russ. Guilliman's face hardened even more, becoming akin to stone as he deciphered his brother's intent.

Silence hung heavy between them for a moment, the air tense with violence. Russ could smell the battle-musk of his sons; they were ready to kill their Ultramarine counterparts in but a moment.

"Well? Tell me!"

"You're a traitor," Russ said, softly, yet predatorily.

Guilliman's face became harder than stone, then went emotionless.

"Why do you say that?"

"Imperium Secundus."

Guilliman shook his head. Was that anger, or disappointment? Russ couldn't tell and Guilliman's scent became stale as his emotions came under control.

"How wrong you could be, brother. I am no traitor. The Secundus Contingency was only a precaution, one that was never put into place."

"But it was made, nonetheless. I've seen the documents, the plans. You would have made yourself emperor."

Guilliman barked laughter, cold and hard. "There are two reasons why I drew up the contingency that is the Imperium Secundus, and two reasons why it never went past plans. Theoretical, if the Throneworld fell to the traitors, or if the worst happened: the Emperor was killed, what then would have resulted? Anarchy, the fracturing of the loyalist front, and chaos. We would have been ripe for the traitors to sweep us aside and establish their supremacy. Practical, develop a successor state to the Imperium, allowing the Emperor's dream and Mankind to survive and to also act as a haven for Imperial forces. I did not make the theoretical become practical because there was no other to crown emperor. If I had crowned myself, I wouldn't have been any better than Fulgrim. I would have been a hypocrite, seemingly power-hungry, and labelled a secessionist and a traitor. If Sanguinius, Horus, or even the Lion had been here… well, Secundus may very well have come about."

Guilliman sat down into his large chair; shoulders slumped with exhaustion and burdens. Russ then saw how truly tired his brother was, and felt a moment of… doubt. He was not accustomed to it. Guilliman continued.

"We were cut off from the outside for five years. Five long years, with no word from Terra, or any other loyalists. For a while some assumed we were all that was left, but even then I did not crown myself. Not until I knew for sure the situation outside Ultramar. When you arrived to Macragge, your fleet falling apart, battle-wounds clearly visible to the naked eye, I knew the war continued. There was a moment, when I saw your flagship dock in near-orbit and before I knew the details of the greater Heresy, where I toyed with the idea of crowning you, Leman. The Wolf King would have become the Wolf Emperor."

Russ tensed at that, but Guilliman's raised hand placated him.

"Only for a moment, mind you. Then you told me of the war outside the Ruinstorm, how the traitors neared Terra with every passing day, and how the Emperor still yet lived. When I learned this, I had the Secundus Contingency locked away, never to be used and to be forgotten. But you found it." Guilliman's eyes narrowed. "I would like to know how you did that."

"That is unimportant," Russ said. He heard the truth in his brother's words, and his scent was honest. Guilliman was not a traitor, just a cautious man who thought of the worst outcomes and made plans to counter them.

"I was wrong, Roboute. I assumed the worst, yet hoped for the best. Today assumption fell wrong, and hope endured." Russ took off one of his gauntlets, tossing it onto the desk, and withdrew a small blade from his waist. Cutting into his skin, deep enough to allow some blood to pool to the surface and not instantly clot, he held out his hands to Guilliman. The blade was to be taken from him and the bloodied hand grasped.

"I swear upon my blood, Roboute, that I harbour no doubts about your loyalty any longer. I know you to be a true and loyal son to our father, and will swear a blood-oath with you to cleanse Ultramar of the traitors."

"We shook on this before," commented the Ultramarine Primarch, but he took the blade anyway in hand.

"We did, but that agreement became fouled by this misunderstanding between us. Now we understand the other and the blood will purify our previous agreement."

Russ watched as Guilliman cut into his own palm, blood pooling into his hand.

"I, Leman Russ, Wolf King, Lord of Winter and War, Primarch of the Sixth Legion, do swear upon my blood to purge Ultramar of traitors and reunite the Five Hundred Worlds with the Imperium as soon as possible."

Russ waited for Guilliman to speak, which he promptly did.

"I, Roboute Guilliman, Battle-King, Lord of Ultramar, Primarch of the Thirteenth Legion, do swear upon my blood to purge Ultramar of traitors and reunite the Five Hundred Worlds with the Imperium as soon as possible."

Both primarchs clasped their bloodied hands together, their blood mixing with the other.

"Now brother," began Russ, "when do we leave?"

"Soon, very soon. Prepare your Legion, Leman. We have traitors to kill."

* * *

 **Reclamation**

Captain Falcius Edonus moved through the rubble that had once been prosperous suburbs of Salucia's largest city: Dominar. Flanking him were fellow Ultramarines, moving further into the Iron Hand-occupied city. Entry had been easy, using an ancient sewer system that were built centuries before the world became part of Ultramar. Better and more extensive pipes had been laid with typical Ultramar efficiency, but those were on blueprints. These older lines were not. Moving from them to the more modern pipes was risky, but no sensors were triggered nor enemy seen. Reaching the surface brought new dangers, but they were so deep behind enemy lines that the traitors would not expect nearly two hundred Ultramarine legionnaires to be in their midst. As Edonus neared the pre-determined area where his company would wait, he thought back on how the Shadow Crusade reached Salucia.

The Heresy was now three years old, with no end in sight. Edonus and his company, the 23rd Chapter's 77th Company, had been on routine patrol on the outer edge of the Five Hundred Worlds when contact with the rest of the Imperium had been severed. More disturbing was the Ruinstorm. Not only did it block any travel to or from Ultramar, as well as making warp jumps within Ultramar difficult, it formed a physical presence in real-space. Night and day, the blood and bruise coloured stormwall was visible, taunting them, locking them up in a cage like an animal. That had been three years ago, but much had happened since.

Lorgar's and Manus' Shadow Crusade had lasted a year, seeing nearly thirty worlds so damaged by war as to be made uninhabitable for millennia, if not forever. Over a hundred more worlds had felt the war reach them, with many occupied by the Word Bearers and Iron Hands, or raided and made to bleed for no apparent reason. When the two Traitor Primarchs had withdrawn, they left behind tens of thousands of Astartes, plus many millions of human soldiers. The XVII had left their most fanatical elements behind, led by First Captain Kor Phaeron and First Chaplain Erebus. The fanatics were always chanting prayers to their dark masters, whom they called gods. It revolted Edonus to hear such talk, but the Imperial Truth no longer held sway anymore. Not as it once did. Gone were the days of enlightenment, science and reason. Now were the days of war, treachery, and daemons. The X had left fewer legionnaires than the Word Bearers, but they had made up for their lack of numbers for being excellent at delaying tactics and defence. Their battle automata and tech-heresy allowed them to even the odds when facing the more numerous XIII.

Edonus and his company had arrived to Salucia mere weeks after the Shadow Crusade had begun, ordered there by Legion command to hold the planet against any hostile invaders. It had seemed strange to be sent to a planet so far out of the way of the major theatres, but within a month of arriving a traitor raiding fleet had arrived, doubtlessly seeing Salucia as a quick and easy raid. The 77th Company had denied such an easy conquest.

In spite of their valiant resistance, the traitors continued to advance. On Mark 403 for Salucia the Ultramarines and their Army allies had been pushed back to the Dantian Peninsula far to the south-east. Edonus had prepared himself for the end, but then hope came in the form of reinforcements. Several companies of legionnaires and two dozen regiments of the Imperial Army had arrived. The traitors' advance had been stopped and then ever so slowly pushed back. Even in retreat, the enemy legionnaires and their lackeys made the loyalists bleed for every metre of ground liberated. Now, it was Mark 1047, and Dominar was their last holdout. Edonus had been the ranking officer when the planet nearly fell, so it was only right he would be the first to bring retribution in the last battle for Salucia.

Dominar had been made into a fortress, but the Iron Hands did not know about the blind spots beneath their feet. Impregnable from above, vulnerable from below, Salucia would fall this night. Edonus' company was not the only one in the city, though the other remained in the sewers, waiting for the time to emerge to cause confusion while the bulk of the loyalists attacked the outlying districts of the city.

The broken wall, rubble strewn about, provided ample cover. But it would not be used as such. Looking over the wall, he saw his target in the nearby coutyard: heavy artillery guns, rocket racks, SAM and AA guns, all facing towards the east where the loyalists had assembled en masse. Cameleoline nets covered them, making them invisible to surveillance from the air.

"Mark them," he said. His vox-legionnaire nodded and began to send the locations of the traitors' defence line to the long-range heavy artillery kilometres away. Undoubtedly, the Iron Hands knew the primary, secondary and tertiary vox frequencies used by the Thirteenth Legion, which the loyalists had used throughout the campaign, merely updating their codes and encryption.

Today though, it was not the XIII's frequency being used, but the frequency used by Salucian deep-sea mining corporations. Still in code, but if lucky, the traitors wouldn't even be aware of the storm coming to them. As the legionnaire finished sending the coordinates, Edonus nodded.

"Execute immediately."

The legionnaire relayed the message and far away, Edonus could hear the dull rumblings of giants roaring flame and metal. Heavy ordinance shot from Imperial positions, landing amidst the Iron Hand defences. Explosions bloomed among the enemy line, ammunition popping off as it was consumed by flame. There were screams, mainly from mortal auxiliaries. The barrage lasted but a few minutes, but it was enough. The Iron Hands guns were wreckage, hundreds of mortals and several legionnaires laid on the ground, dead.

Edonus activated his power fist and readied his bolter.

"For Guilliman and the Emperor!"

The Ultramarines took up the battle-cry as they rushed over the broken wall, heading towards the enemy. Some mortals looked about, dazed, and they quickly died from blade and fist. No need to waste good bolts on such weak foes. Further ahead, from the smoke and fire emerged the Gorgon's sons.

Black and silver clashed with blue, white and gold. Bolters were fired and grenades thrown as the two forces converged. Red blood arced in the air and pooled on the ground, armoured transhuman warriors fell, most dead, some wounded. Those were quickly finished off with a second volley of fire. The two companies of Astartes neared and clashed in the centre of the broken artillery guns.

Edonus ducked a chainsword swing from an Iron Hand, upper-cutting him with his power fist. Armour buckled and blood hissed as it met with the fist's power field. The traitor flew backwards, his helm caved in and brain matter speckling his grille. An Ultramarine died beside him. Edonus reacted, bringing his bolt pistol to bear and avenged his fallen brother. The offending Iron Hand fell backwards, a bolt round having ruptured his skull.

Over the vox he could hear the second company in the sewer emerging from its position to strike at traitor forces heading towards the outer districts as reinforcement. From the east, a thunderous roar signalled the rapidly nearing Imperial forces. Overhead a half dozen Thunderhawks flew over. Enemy AA fire might have been severely weakened by Edonus' first strike, but some weapon platforms were still operational. Thick calibre rounds tore into the flank of one of the Thunderhawks. It quickly caught fire and started to swerve hard into a skyscraper. Edonus saw some battle-brothers jump out, but most were still in the dropship when it rammed into the building.

He yelled in anger as he returned his focus to the battle, killing two more Tenth Legion Astartes. A Thunderhawk neared his position, depositing its twenty-man cargo. The fresh Space Marine joined the melee, forcing the Iron Hands back.

From further into Dominar came the mechanical clanking of metal legs rapidly approaching. Edonus saw what approached and stifled his disgust. Battle automata. But these were no typical automata, but ones made not by the Mechanicum as was their forte, but rather the Tenth Legion itself. Abominable Intelligences, however limited, were reminders of Mankind's past failed ambitions and overconfidence.

The Imperium was now facing its own failed ambitions and overconfidence. History seemed to repeat itself often.

The automata were driven by their own will, no human brain controlling them in any form, only wires, cogs and a small cogitator. The soulless machines joined the battle, negating the XIII reinforcements. Both sides fought and died in that courtyard. Edonus destroyed two of the robots with his fist, and shot another three. They were fast and designed to kill Space Marines, their weaponry reflecting that intention. Several legionnaires in cobalt fell to their blades, but more of the automata were destroyed in turn. A machine could be built and made to kill with but a command program. It took years to train an Aspirant into a battle-brother. So despite every legionnaire taking three or four of the robots, it was an unfavourable trade and the Iron Hands knew it.

They knew since reinforcements had arrived to Salucia that they would lose the planet, yet nevertheless had stayed to bleed the Ultramarines and take up manpower and resources that could have been better spent elsewhere. Even if the loyalists won here, the traitors still came out ahead. That blunt realisation and the cold fury that followed it like a dedicated hound pushed Edonus to cut a path through the traitor legionnaires and their damned war-machines.

At the back of the battle, a lone Astartes approached. He wore a long and tattered grey cloak, only the splayed out iron hand sigil adorning it, covering his black and silver armour. If the cloak did not announce clearly enough to that saw him, the mag-bow gripped in the legionnaire's hand announced who he was without a doubt. A Wanderer. Here. Edonus saw the Space Marine raise his mag-bow and three mag-arrows were shot, each killing an Ultramarine, piercing battle-plate like a hot knife cutting into butter. Edonus made his way to the Wanderer. The legionnaire might not have an official rank like sergeant or captain, but he had been chosen to join the Wanderers by Ferrus Manus himself and would represent a high value target. If the Wanderer were to die, the morale of the traitors would likely fall, making the battle all the more easier.

He could hear explosions from behind, and gunfire. The bulk of the loyalists had finally joined the fray and entered the city's outer districts. It would be a bloodbath, but with Iron Hand reinforcements being tied here, not to mention their heavy ordinance destroyed, the day would belong to the Imperium in the end.

The Wanderer saw him approach, appraised him, seeing the officer's icons and helm crest. The Iron Hand raised his mag-bow; Edonus could hear its building whine. He grabbed a shield from the ground, its bottom brushing emptied shells and fallen weapons as he pulled it to protect his centre. The bow fired, its arrow punching through the shield, the head close to Edonus' head but the shield had stopped its forward momentum. He was close now. Another arrow pierced the metal, but again was stopped. The Ultramarine captain threw the shield at the Wanderer, the shield knocking aside the mag-bow. He rushed the legionnaire, who pulled his own close combat weapon. Powerfist met power sword, sparks flying. The two danced with death, fist and blade nearing their mark but their training and skill prevented them from landing.

All around them, brothers from two Legions met, fought, and died. Battle automata intermingled with the legionnaires, providing support for the Medusans. More and more Ultramarines died, their numbers dwindling. Edonus sidestepped a thrust, seeing an opening and swung down with his fist. The traitor raised his right hand and the powerfist impacted it. Edonus did not expect screaming, nor was there any. He was surprised to see wires emerging from the hand. An augmetic, and one of such fine quality as to be indistinguishable from flesh. The Iron Hand punched him with the metal stump, pushing Edonus back. A quick slash from the power sword saw his right hand, the one carrying the fist, fall to the ground. Blood spurted from the wound until his Larraman cells could stop the bleeding.

The Iron Hand shouldered him to the ground. The black-and-silver Astartes brought his sword to bear. He looked at his stump, then Edonus' severed hand.

"The Flesh is Weak, little Ultramarine."

The Wanderer raised his sword. Bolts hit him in the chest, exploding within the legionnaire's chest cavity, blood spraying Edonus. The traitor knelt, breathing heavy. Alongside blood, machine oil dripped out from the fatal wound. Edonus pushed himself up, seeing fresh XIII legionnaires joining the fray, pushing the Iron Hands and their robots back. He picked up the traitor's blade in his left hand.

"Such pride, traitor." He jabbed the blade into the legionnaire's primary heart. The Wanderer died, and fell to the earth. Pulling the blade free, black and red coating its length, he pushed himself to his feet. From its hilt, a pommel bearing the Tenth Legion's sigil displayed itself. A battle-brother rushed to his side.

"Sir, the attack has broken through the traitors' lines. What's left of the traitors has pulled back to the Casain Administration Building."

Edonus looked at the blade a final time. He could almost hear screams and whispers coming from it. He did not know if the weapon housed a daemon, but better safe than sorry. He tossed it the ground. He would not dirty himself with such filth.

"Good, brother. Ready the men, we make for this battle's conclusion."

"Yes, sir." The Space Marines in the courtyard began to assemble. So many would not stand beside them. So many would not see the end of this war. But they fought, nevertheless. Edonus unclipped a small plasma grenade from his belt, setting it to a thirty second detonation, and laid it atop the Wanderer's blade. He moved away from the blade.

"Ultramarines, move out!" he ordered and joined the dozens that jogged towards the last phase of the Battle of Salucia. The plasma grenade detonated, consuming the foul sword.

* * *

 **Grave of Metal Corpses**

Calth's orbit was a graveyard. Imperial Army, Ultramarine, Iron Hand and even several Word Bearer vessels littered the void, many with huge rents in them. Cold corpses drifted through space, their blood congealed and frozen.

Captain Senra Tao sat on her throne, watching as the three cutters began to cut away from the strike cruiser's hull. Her ship, the _Kalcullna_ , was a light cruiser that acted as escort to the cutter squadron. The salvage operation had been ongoing for six months, since the last of the rebels' fleet had departed after a month of orbital supremacy. The Shadow Crusade was tearing across Ultramar, a dozen worlds burned to a crisp, and dozens more scarred by war. Lorgar Aurelian and Ferrus Manus spearheaded the traitors' assault through the Five Hundred Worlds, and countless billions were dead or dying.

Only ships that had been of the XIII or the loyal Army were to be used for scrap, traitor ships had a tendency to have… disturbing things hiding on them. They had found out the hard way. Some ships had been salvageable as a whole, only needing months in the repair yards, but most ships would have needed years to return to frontline duties. Those were broken down for parts. Already, Tao's squadron, and other like it, had recovered dozens of ships and broke down hundreds more. Tao's presence was required, as there had been several attacks from hidden corvettes and ships that still clung to life. But the last confirmed attack in this sector had been weeks ago.

"Captain, Cutter Two is reporting odd transmissions." Her vox-master turned from his station.

"Could it be vox-echoes?" she asked.

"Possible, but-

Cutter Two exploded. Cutter One was caught in the blast, and Cutter Three lurched away, but trailed debris and its speed was reduced by half. The ship they had been cutting into swivelled several of its cannons and fired upon the fleeing cutter. The unarmed ship, carrying hundreds of crewmen, exploded quickly.

"Cease fire, cease fire! Strike Cruiser _Idonalius_ , this is the Imperial Army light cruiser, _Kalcullna_! Cease fire, cease fire, we are loyal to the Throne!"

The response hissed through, distorted. "We bring the Word to unbelievers! We bring the Word to the defiant! We bring the Word to all!"

Tao grimaced. "Heretics." They must have boarded the ship during the void battles months ago. "Weapons, destroy them."

Confirmation came from her weapons-mistress, who targeted the crippled ship. The lance beams hit the weak sections of the strike cruiser, setting off a chain reaction within the ship. Explosions rippled across the hull, splitting through the ship's midsection. The two separate halves drifted lazily in two different directions, impacting other corpse-hulls and exploding.

Tao watched, cursing under her breath. Now she had to explain to Command how she lost her entire cutter squadron in a single engagement with a half-destroyed Astartes warship. If she was lucky, she would be relegated to patrol the edge of the Five Hundred Worlds for a decade. Unlucky and she would be at the frontlines.

She shuddered as she ordered her ship to withdraw. But she did so nonetheless. It was her duty.

* * *

 **Perfected Raid**

The world called Tamera was a peaceful planet, industrious, too. It exported textiles of excellent quality and finely cut jewels mined from the Ancano Mountains. Its beauty was obvious from space, with tall mountains, large rivers and expansive green fields where the Tamerans farmed to feed their people. Besides its exports, which were desired on worlds throughout half the sector, it featured a budding, but increasingly growing trade network. The warp tides near Tamera were swift and smooth, bringing much wealth to the planet. It was that extensive depot of goods, including the vast merchant fleet that carried those goods across the sector, and the warp tides that brought the Sons of Fulgrim to Tamera. Because that which could carry trade goods could also carry soldiers, war materials and more. The wealth of Tamera would be put to good use, as well. Mercenary armies, bribing sector governors and more would be needed to buy with coin and gem. The War Commander might have the support of two-fifths of the Imperium and eight of the Legiones Astartes, but more would be needed to tip the scales of the war in Fulgrim's favour.

The Dropsite Massacre had hurt the loyalists, almost critically so, and the follow up campaigns had further weakened them, but the road to Terra was long and would take years. As a result, worlds like Tamera were highly sought after by the War Commander. No matter how important a duty, it was relegated to lower-ranking officers. While lord commanders such as Eidolon, Lucius, and Cyrius fought on the frontlines beside the Phoenician, others, usually newly promoted captains and lieutenant commanders, led these minor raids.

The raiding force that came to Tamera was led by Captain Tyberius Sakaeron of the Second Millennial.

When the III warships entered orbit, squads deployed to secure the orbital depot yards and merchant freighters. Within an hour the orbital network would be secured, with sabotage kept to only two freighters having been tampered with. The rest, over two hundred ships, were captured. While critical to the overall raid, more central matters took place below on the surface. The bulk of the raiding force descended to Tamera itself, with five regiments of the rebel Imperial Army accompanying them.

Sakaeron himself deployed in the first wave surrounded by his guard and all carrying storm shields. Their dropship, a Thunderhawk, shook as loyalist anti-air unleashed its fury into the heavens. Over the vox, Sakaeron could hear his brothers and mortal allies dying as they descended. The Legion losses were regrettable, but previously taken into account.

The Thunderhawk landed with a start. The side doors clunked open and Sakaeron was the first off the dropship, the first Son of Fulgrim on Tameran soil. War ruled Tamera now, not industry or peaceful trade, but violent, destructive war. He smiled.

Sakaeron hoisted himself onto the Rhino detached by a carrier-ship, his legionnaires following suit, and he made his way to Tamera City, capital of this world. In the distance he could make out hundreds of Leman Russ tanks – Gorgons, he needed to remind himself they were known as Gorgons now to the rebellion – moving towards the Third Legion's landing zone, various other armoured vehicles in support. They were assembled by company and were moving fast across the green, fertile plains. The Tamerans may not have been a militant people, but their reaction was swift and he gave them credit for that. Sakaeron had expected this and had prepared accordingly.

"Now," he ordered over the vox to his flagship in orbit. Orbital bombardments traditionally took many hours to prepare, to account for planetary rotation, target location's weather, point-of-attack and much more. It took Sakaeron only thirty minutes to perform the final calculations correctly when his fleet neared the planet after their several hours long journey from the Mandeville point to near-orbit.

Lance and plasma rained from low-orbit, impacting amongst the Gorgon tanks, many liquefying under the intense heat. He imagined hearing their screams as the crews cooked alive in what was supposed to protect them. It was the symphony of death, and it rang sweet. A dozen Third Legion Rhinos raced across the plains to the city, three Land Raiders scattered among them to add their powerful arsenals to the battle. Behind them hundreds of Army Chimeras churned up dust as they raced to meet the Legion's quick pace. Heavier bulk carriers began to land, their cargo being hauled out by servitors and slaves. Overhead, fighters and bombers peppered Tamera City with high explosives. One bomber was clipped by AA from within the city, thick, black smoke emitting from its starboard engines. It twisted, breaking apart, and crashed into the city's wall.

It took nearly ten minutes for Sakaeron and his assault to reach those walls. Likely, in other situations, he would have laid siege, but he did not have time for that. The war raged across the galaxy and he would be damned if he stayed here longer than he had too.

"Fire."

From the landing zone, thirty-seven heavy artillery guns unloaded their arsenal, all aiming at one point: the portion of the city wall directly in front of the traitor legionnaires. Sakaeron could hear the high pitched whistle of the shells soaring overhead and impacting the ceramite wall. The wall began to crack and chip, but still it stood.

"Fire," he repeated. Another thirty-seven artillery rounds pounded the wall, the whistle louder and more threatening as they rapidly neared the crumbling wall.

"Cease fire," he ordered. Switching to the frequency used by the Rhinos, he spoke firmly. "On my mark." He rose from his command pulpit, grasping the heavy bolter in his armoured hands. "Mark." Bolt rounds flew from his weapon and the other Rhinos followed suit. Their bolts impacted the wall, exploding as they penetrated, and the crumbling wall finally heaved and fell apart, leaving a gaping hole just large enough for a Rhino.

"Single file, follow me in."

The Rhinos rearranged themselves, and their captain led them into Tamera City. The wall scratched and dirtied the purple and gold livery of the transport, dirt cloying the air nearby. Sakaeron flashed a grin as he saw the city's interior. The defenders, men and women in military attire, tried to resist. The first few were shredded by bolter fire, their rapidly torn apart bodies leaving a reddish-pink mist in the air.

"Third Squad, secure the breach and establish a perimeter. Fourth and Eighth Squad, head to the industrial sector and preserve the machinery. Cut off any loyalist reinforcements that will make their way through there."

Confirmations flooded to him, but Sakaeron pushed them back, knowing his legionnaires would follow his orders no matter what. Discipline ran deep in the Sons of Fulgrim. "Fifth, Sixth and Tenth Squad, move to the starport. Capture the command centre." Three more Rhinos, thirty more legionnaires, left to comply with his order.

"The rest, follow me. We are going to take the governor's palace."

The remaining half-dozen armoured vehicles stormed across Tamera City. Reports from the Army units detailed their endeavours in the city, their goal was to protect the Legion's flank and to capture the vast warehouses and supply centres.

Sakaeron remained on the bolter, unleashing a burst here, a burst there, killing those few soldiers who dared tried to resist. Within minutes, the six Rhinos pulled up to a grand palace: the planetary governor's home.

Sakaeron stepped down from the Rhino, motioning for his warriors to advance. They broke down the door, slaughtering what few of the house guard had remained, foolish or brave, it mattered not. The Sons of Fulgrim swept the mansion quickly, efficiently, and within two minutes of entering, he stood in front of Governor Albias Yunn in the man's official office. The man was corpulent, sweat trickling down ruddy fat cheeks, and he smelt faintly of Iho sticks and amasec.

Sakaeron seated himself across from the shaking Yunn. "Governor, please, sit."

The man did so, though he practically fell into the padded chair. Sakaeron's own chair groaned at the weight it was taking as it was never designed for a transhuman in mind, but he ignored it. Three legionnaires took station throughout the room.

Sakaeron unclasped his helm, hearing the hiss of escaped air, and set it aside near a small metal Aquila that rested on the desk as a paper weight. He leaned forward and flicked it, the double eagle falling to its side. Yunn watched with watery eyes.

"What are… what are you going to do with me?"

"Nothing, if you cooperate."

"What do you want?"

"The access codes to your personal treasury."

"That's my-" Yunn swallowed nervously. "The governor's funds are part of the government's. It can be accessed easily."

"Is that so? So, no stashed away funds for you and you alone?"

Yunn was silent.

Sakaeron sighed, and pulled out his combat knife and impaled it into the gilded wooden table. It pierced the rich wood easily.

"Now, Governor Yunn, you will tell me the access codes or I will kill you. Give them to me and I won't."

"But you need me-"

"Need?" Sakaeron was amused. The man actually thought that! How could a weak-willed, spineless coward of a mortal think he was necessary. He was merely just a tool to hasten the job. "I can crack the code eventually, but there is a war to win and I want to return to it as quickly as possible. Now," Sakaeron narrowed his violet eyes, "give me the codes or have your throat slit by my hand."

Yunn looked at him for a moment than nodded, tears cascading down his cheeks onto his silk vest. Sakaeron brought out a data-slate, handed it to the mortal, and waited as he punched in his codes. Yunn handed it back and Sakaeron quirked an eyebrow at the number presented.

"Eighty-seven millions crowns? My, someone is corrupt, isn't he? Most impressive, governor. This will help the War Commander. Not very much, but every little bit helps. No small contribution should be ignored."

The legionnaire captain rose from the ornate desk and began to leave the room, two guards trailing him.

"Sergeant Silvus, if you would do the honours," he said to the remaining legionnaire, who stood behind the shaking Yunn.

Silvus plucked Sakaeron's knife from the table and brought it the governor's throat.

"But you said you wouldn't kill me if I gave you the codes!" Pudgy fingers pointed accusingly at Sakaeron. The officer turned around, bemused.

"You're right, I did, and I am keeping my end of the deal. _I_ won't kill you. I didn't say you would leave this room alive." He left the room as he heard the monomolecular sharpened blade cut the corrupt ruler's fat throat. Such an inefficient creature, that Yunn was. With the planet's wealth, he could easily have doubled his personal wealth. Not only was he corrupt, but poorly so. When Fulgrim became the Second Emperor, such weak corruption wouldn't exist, and those that were corrupt would be far more intelligent and devious. Such traits would be necessary for the Imperium to evolve. The new Imperium of Man would run better, more smoothly, and Mankind would reach another golden age under the Phoenician's benevolent and wise rule.

Sakaeron checked his chrono, noting he had been on-planet for less than an hour. By the reports coming to him, he had lost two legionnaires due to AA fire and one in orbit due to combat servitors. Army losses were light, several hundred. The Astartes for the wealth of an entire world. It was worth the cost. Already the freighters in orbit were being manned by trusted serfs, and the riches of Tamera pulled from its grasp to support the War Commander's crusade to Terra. This was the third such raid of similar success in just over a month. The primarch would be pleased and Sakaeron would gain some favour from these little endeavours. Since Vespasian's death at the Rebirth, no officer had been promoted to Lord Commander of the Second Millennial. Fulgrim had the various captains of the Millennial competing against each other to make sure only the strongest and most deserving became one of the Legion's lord commanders. And Sakaeron was determined for it to be him. He would one day become a lord commander, and eventually, he hoped to become so much more.

The Heresy was purging the old blood, allowing the newer, better stock come to power. He had been a sergeant a year ago, now a captain. Soon he would be more, so much more. His dreams hinted that he would become powerful and feared. He would make it so.

* * *

 **Dark Glass**

They found the artefact in the centre of the Catallus Warp Rift, hovering over the tear in reality. The Thousand Son squadrons moved closer. Aboard the squadron's flagship, the battle-barge _Ankhtowe_ , stood Magnus the Red, the Crimson King, Cyclops, Primarch of the Fifteenth Legion. He watched as the XV warships secured a perimeter in the bubble of relative stable space near the artefact.

Beside him stood Amon, Captain of the Ninth Fellowship and Equerry to the primarch. The man had helped raised Magnus, akin to a foster father, but more so. Amon had been his teacher, his strong right hand during the early years on Tizca. Later, when Magnus had begun to unify Prospero, Amon had been his most powerful advisor and led the government when Magnus was otherwise preoccupied. Magnus had seen approval in those old eyes many times, and each warmed him. But lately, there had been nothing to approve. Prospero burned, his people butchered like cattle, and his sons forced to damn themselves further by allying with Fulgrim. It was not desirable, but it is what happened so he do the best he could for his sons.

Amon looked at Magnus.

"What is it?" he asked, gesturing to the view-screen.

"An artefact from the Dark Age of Technology. My father found it, then hid it. He didn't hide it well enough, however."

"But what does it do?"

Magnus didn't answer, but made way to the hangar bay. Amon followed only a step behind, and the Scarab Occult trailed them both. The primarch descended through several levels of the _Ankhtowe_. The Photep was commanded by Ahriman, and was elsewhere, drawing Russ away into a carefully designed trap. Magnus' body might be here, but most of his consciousness was elsewhere, acting as a beacon to the Wolf King. Never had Magnus felt so weak. But he must be strong, for his sons, for the future of Mankind.

Boarding a Stormbird and taking it over to the artefact took only several minutes. Finding an opening was difficult, hidden as it was, but not long after departing the battle-barge, Magnus, his guard, and Amon walked the halls of the artefact. More dropships arrived carrying several squads of Space Marines.

"Move out, secure the station." The Astartes complied with their primarch's order. Magnus and his party moved deeper into the aretfact, which seemed to be made of crystalline material. He knocked on it, testing it. Crystalline in appearance, but harder than most metals. Very curious.

As the legionnaires explored more and more of the station, reports flooded back to Magnus. No one had been found, but dried blood was visible throughout in many locales. Magnus watched everything with care, noting every detail and implication.

"My lord," reported one of his Techmarines, "we have found something."

The primarch noted the location of the legionnaire in question via auspex. "'I am on my way."

It took longer than it should have, corridors seemingly twisting and ending almost randomly. Others would have been lost for hours. To a primarch, it merely added minutes to the journey. Magnus saw the doors that had been forced open, breaking them, and saw a circular chamber covered in thick cable wires and other machinery. He stepped into the chamber and his eye was drawn the throne in the centre, a burned skeleton covered in scraps of clothing sat in the throne. A headband encircled the figure's head. Magnus moved forward, pulling the band down to see a third empty eye socket. A Navigator? More and more curious. He looked about.

A cogitator was nearby, blood staining its controls. Moving to stand beside it, he saw a blinking light. Manipulating the controls, he activated the pre-recorded message. He watched on in silence as the Navigator, named Pieter Helian Achelieux, spoke of what he called the Dark Glass and the project that had gone on here. It was addressed directly to the Emperor.

The recording was short. It detailed the last few days of successful operation, the project nearing completion, the hope of stabilising the Webway close at hand and then the madness that spread among the crew like a sickness, making them kill one another in a blind blood-fueled frenzy. Achelieux had locked himself in the throne room. He was there for days, but with food and water reserves depleted, he placed himself upon the command throne to attempt escape. The recording ended then. Despite his strength and impressive will that he undoubtedly had, the Navigator burned himself out, becoming nothing but bones and dust.

Magnus stood there silently. Eventually Amon spoke up. "He mentioned that a primarch was to sit on it. One of great psychic power." Magnus could feel Amon's eyes on him, but did not respond nor turn around.

"Secure all data, record everything," Magnus spoke aloud, then took a deep breath. "Set explosives for remote detonation." The legionnaires assembled dispersed to carry out those orders, all but the Scarab Occult and Amon.

"Why, Magnus?" asked Amon. "Why destroy this place?"

"I see now what my father wished, what this place meant to Him. He wanted to leave behind warp travel and the dangers associated with it. A faster, more secure, and far safer method of transportation, adapted from ancient xenos technology but human-made. It is admirable in intent, but it can never come to pass now."

Amon tilted his head. "But why destroy it? This is a relic of another age. Think of the knowledge it holds!"

"We will take all we can with us, but this place cannot remain intact. The path that was forced upon us has made it clear that the future of the Thousand Sons resides with the warp and its mysteries. We can not allow the Emperor to construct something outside our domain and influence. The time of knowledge is gone, at least for the moment. The time of betrayal and war now reign supreme, therefore we must do all we can to secure victory."

Amon nodded, understanding.

Magnus left the chamber, heading towards the hangar bay. His guards following. Amon stayed behind to look at the Navigator's husk.

"All is Dust," he muttered, then left to rejoin the others.


	19. Chainsworn

**Chainsworn**

The _Conqueror_ hovered over a dead world, killed by its invaders. Ship after ship ascended and descended through the atmosphere, transporting men and material to the fleet centred around the Gloriana-class warship.

Arkhas Fal looked down at the ochre-coloured planet from a chamber that separated him from void via a plastek window, and frowned. The Battle for Gasnea Prime had lasted nearly three weeks and saw heavy fighting. Many had died, both World Eater and Outcast, but compliance had been secured in the end.

He stood in the waiting room, his second-in-command, Captain Thaes Balfur moved up beside him.

"It feels strange to fight without Him."

"Him? The primarch?"

"No. Not him, _Him_ ," Balfur stressed the word.

"Oh, Him."

Balfur nodded. "It's been years since Horus became Warmaster, yet it feels like only a few months have passed since the Emperor retired to Terra."

Fal was glad that Balfur couldn't see his face, for his features looked as if he bit into a Calden lemon. Two centuries of service together had made the two officers become close friends and comrades. Balfur's faith in the Emperor and Horus had stayed strong throughout that entire time, while Fal's…. had faded.

Now he had faith in no one but himself and his Outcast brothers. And one other.

"The Crusade is ending, brother." Their black and white armour hummed, providing the only background noise aside from the humming vibrations from the warship's engines. "It is finally ending." Balfur's voice seemed resigned, or was it relief? "Two centuries of death and blood, soon it will end. Then there will be peace. Finally, peace."

Fal shook his head. "There will always be war."

Balfur stepped forward to look at Fal directly. "You jest. Perhaps a rebellion or minor xenos incursion, but soon there will be no need of the Legions, at least not as we are now."

"From conquerors and liberators to a police force, eh?" Fal spat the words. "What a waste."

Balfur eyed him for a moment then turned around to look down as Gasnea Prime. "There will be a place for us after the Crusade ends. Guilliman has ideas of what it will be, what we will become. I must say, Arkhas, that after two centuries of service, I wouldn't mind decades of relative peace."

 _Such naivety, such self-delusion,_ he thought. Fal was glad the plastek window did not reflect his face, for they were twisted with annoyance, and minor disgust.

The two Nineteenth Legion Astartes stared down at the compliant world, silent save for ventilation, the ship's engines, and their armours' hum.

Their serenity was broken by a door opening and an officer in the blue-and-white of the XII walked in.

"He is ready to see you," the World Eater spoke bluntly, to the point. Fal found it refreshing. "Follow me, Shade Lord."

Fal followed, motioning Balfur to remain behind. The Twelfth Primarch had called Fal to attend and no one else. Protocol and tradition made Balfur accompany him to the _Conqueror_ , but he would not attend the Gladiator.

The distance from the chamber to the primarch's residence was short. Space Marines in Cataphractii armour guarded intervals leading to the primarch. Their red eye-lenses stared down Fal as he was led past them. Many had fought beside the Outcast commander in several campaigns, but their vigilance did not waver. Not when their lord's security was concerned. The Devourers were known for their ferocity in battle and their utmost loyalty to Angron.

Two opened the final door for the World Eater centurion and Fal, with another four watching with hands on their weapons. Odd, thought Fal. The Devourers were usually not this tense. Something must be amiss.

Inside was a long hallway, with pillars on either side. The pillars themselves were bland, coloured in Legion livery, but the walls behind them were far more decorated. It told of Angron landing on Nuceria, being taken in by farmers, volunteering to join the slave-pits to pay his foster family's debts, and the rest was well known. The gladiatorial survival of the fittest, the rebellion by Angron, his success and subsequent war of liberation for the planet… The walls detailed this all and more. In the far back corner two mortals were putting the initial strokes that would detail the compliance of Gasnea Prime.

At the end of the hallway was a large table, round, and occupied by high-ranking World Eaters. Fal glanced through the faces, recognizing them all:

First Captain Gheer, First Company.

Captain Sarrik, Third Assault Company.

Captain Dreagher, Ninth Company.

Captain Vostigar Catacult Eres, First Armoured Company.

There were more, but the last one Fal saw was Khârn, Captain of the Eighth Assault Company, Equerry to his primarch and favoured son as well. Khârn saw him, nodding his head in greeting which Fal returned absentmindedly, his attention focused on the being who dominated the table.

Angron, the Crimson One, the Unbroken Gladiator, the Breaker of Chains, and Eater of Worlds. He was magnificent, a demigod to inspire loyalty and demand submission. His head was shaved, only inklings of red hair could be seen, and his deep-set eyes were a pale yellow. The armour the primarch wore was master-crafted Artificer battle-plate created by Perturabo, named _Armour of Mars_.

The primarch noticed him and raised his hand, silencing all others around the table. Fal stepped closer.

"You all know what to do. I will send you finalised orders before we enter the warp. Dismissed."

The World Eaters officers rose and left. None bowed, but many gave the warrior's salute, their armour echoing as fist struck metal and ceramite. They left, Khârn being the last. He patted Fal on the shoulder, as if wishing luck, and departed to join his brethren.

Fal stood before the empty table, save for Angron, and waited.

Angron turned to the mortals in the corner. "Leave." The two gathered their materials, bowed deeply, and rushed to leave via a small, almost unnoticeable door.

Angron's gaze turned to down the hall, near the thick iron doors that Fal had only so recently entered through. The two Devourers there stood motionless. Angron made a gesture, a wave of his hand, fingers twisted into some kind of sign language known only to the primarch and his guardians.

The Devourers tapped their inactive power axes against their chestplate and left through the iron door. Fal and Angron were now alone.

Angron rose and Fal went to his knees.

"Get up," the primarch ordered. It was not kind, nor was it cruel. It simply was, blunt, effective, and above all, uncompromising.

Fal did so.

Angron stared at Fal for a moment, those pale yellow eyes and strong cheekbones judging him. The primarch leaned down to the floor next to seat and brought up a chain, one very similar to those used by duelling pairs in the fighting-pits.

The primarch pulled taut the adamantium chains, clinking together as they were straightened, and moved to stand in front of Fal, a demigod looking down upon a lesser version of him. "Tell me, Arkhas Fal," began the primarch, "what is the difference between slavery and freedom."

* * *

 **Tasskio**

 _One hundred and eighty-two years before the Dropsite Massacre_

 _It will be humiliating to die like this, cornered like a common rat._

That was the thought that kept coming back to him as he fought. His chainsword whirred loudly, skin tearing open under its monomolecular sharp chain-teeth, bones broke, and blood sprayed into the air in sweeping arcs.

"Back! Move back!" he yelled at his brothers. Another fell before the xenos, his skull caved in by a massive jagged cleaver.

"Captain, we can't! No room!" yelled a grey-clad legionnaire, his name Thaes Balfur. Fal quickly saw that the legionnaire was all too right. They had been pushed deep into the canyon, farther than Fal had thought, right into a dead end. Fal could hear bolter fire emanating from nearby canyons, informing him that other squads and companies still fought on, but with no chance to link up with them, all would die, cut off and overwhelmed.

"Company, create breathing room. Gun them down."

The front line pulled back instantly. The xenos, vile Orks thinking victory was near, rushed forward only to be ripped to shreds by bolter fire. Fal fired his last clip into a mass of greenskins, blood and viscera creating a red river in the canyon's dry floor.

Such was the effectiveness of the bolt fire that the Orks struggled to climb over their dead. But in creating space between the Astartes of the Nineteenth Legion and the Orks of some tribe that would be unpronounceable in Low Gothic, the Space Marines used the last of their bolts. Pistols and rifles were discarded, blades readied for the final confrontation.

Fal revved his chainsword, clearing it of flesh, bone and metal. The Orks had thrown their dead to the side, and now howled their zeal for war. One Ork in particular, judging by his primitive armour and helm to be some sort of war leader, bellowed at the legionnaires. Thick, foamy drool dripped from its open jaw. The beast sported beady red eyes amidst a green face with arm length tusks protruding upwards… It was a horrid sight, a sight that had almost pushed Mankind to the brink of extinction in years past.

The Ork leader shouted loudly in challenge once more, spittle spraying outwards, and two axes were brought together, the metal clanging.

"Astartes of the Nineteenth Legion!" Fal yelled over the vox, "We fight for glory and honour!"

"Glory and honour!" they returned.

"For the Emperor!" Fal yelled at the top of his lungs and began to rush forward, his brothers beside him. A few score grey armoured legionnaires against thousands of greenskins.

But the two forces did not meet. Loud, thunderous booms echoed from above. The Orks looked above in confusion, but Fal knew what they were.

Drop-pods.

The sky was filled with them. Trailing behind the falling fiery pods were over a hundred Stormbirds, their engines flaring blue-white to get their armed cargo to the ground as fast as possible.

Two pods, expertly ejected from their warship high above in low orbit, impacted in the canyon, crushing dozens of xenos with metal and force. The doors exploded off, and black and pearl white armoured legionnaires emerged, cutting and gunning down the Orks.

Luna Wolves, sons and soldiers of Horus. Progeny of the First Found had come to rescue them.

"Join them! Kill the xenos! Link up with the XVI!" Fal ordered.

The legionnaires of the XIX complied with the order and joined the fray. Within moments the two Legions had formed up, establishing shield-walls and quickly cutting down the alien menace. Ork after Ork fell, but only occasionally did a ceramite and adamantium encased transhuman fall.

Fal lost himself to the battle, acting on instinct and training. He gave orders and his brothers carried them out. He decapitated one Ork, stabbed another in the chest, and disembowelled another. He was a killer, an Emperor-forged killer. He was Death.

An hour passed before the chaos of battle died down. He pulled his chainsword from the chest cavity of a fallen Ork, raising his sword to attack but stopped as he realized only legionnaires still stood.

Fal's body was weary, his arms burning with lactic acid. His physiology quickly took care of that, but he was still tired after nearly five weeks of almost unending combat, with brief moments of rest here and there. Apothecaries in XVI colours moved through the XIX, checking for injuries and retrieving the gene-seed from the fallen. If a living XIX Apothecary could be found, it would be given to him. For the moment, Fal thanked the Luna Wolves for their preservation of the Nineteenth Primarch's genetic legacy.

"What happened here?" inquired a voice.

Looking up, Fal saw a Luna Wolf standing before him, a captain by his markings.

Fal straightened himself. "We were ambushed."

"By Orks?"

"No. By a race known as the Thezsuum, thirty-three days ago. They lured us in over Tasskio, crippled most of our ships, and departed. Our fleet was forced aground and found the planet teeming with Orks. We have been fighting without pause ever since."

"Where is your Legion Master?"

"Dead." Fal's voice was cold. "That bastard ignored all warnings. He wanted the glory of wiping out the Thezsuum. Instead, he made a grave for the XIX. He died within the first day, too early to truly see the disaster he led us into."

The Luna Wolf was silent for a moment.

"Follow me," he said, and Fal complied.

The legionnaires exited the canyon, more and more dropships descending through the clear orange sky. An operations centre had been established, with several tech-priests and Legion personnel moving to and fro, coordinating the battle. Standing among them was a being that could only be described as the sun. Warm energy flowed through Fal merely being in the same presence as the creature before him, an example of the Emperor's masterful gene-smithing.

"My lord, a captain of the XIX." The Luna Wolf bowed slightly. Fal went to his knees as that tanned face with blue-green eyes flecked with gold turned towards him.

"Thank you, Hastur," said Horus Lupercal, Primarch of the Sixteenth Legion. The primarch turned his gaze to Fal. "Now, tell me how your Legion fell into this mess."

And so Fal told him. He told them of their orders from local Imperial command, telling them to recon the sub-sector. In the midst of their mission, contact with the Thezsuum occurred. The xenos race had defied the Imperium for near a decade and had a formidable empire that acted as a sharp thorn in the nascent Imperium's side.

Shade Lord Gerlkun Aiil tracked one of their fleet's to Tasskio, hoping to wipe it out and seriously hamper the xenos' void capability, but instead led the Nineteenth Legion into a trap. A trap Fal, and several other XIX officers had pointed out. Gerlkun in his _wisdom_ ignored all of that. That foolishness led to bulk of the XIX fleet to be destroyed with the remnant grounded. Only a few ships made it out of the trap, gone to call for help. The survivors that made it to the surface thought they would fight the Thezsuum, but the xenos had chosen their ambush well, for Tasskio crawled with feral Orks numbering in the hundreds of thousands.

What followed was five weeks of warfare. After Gerlkun's death, followed Captain Yaen's, then Captain Barver's, and finally the responsibility of Legion's survival fell upon Arkhas Fal, a mid-ranking captain. He bore that burden for three weeks and each day he became more and more convinced none would rescue them, that the Nineteenth Legion would die before reaching its twentieth year anniversary since inception. Trapped, broken and left to die on a world far from the frontlines and glory of conquest. It would have resulted in them being an embarrassing footnote in Imperial history.

Horus Lupercal listened to this all in silence, four Astartes beside him, each sporting a phase of the moon on their helm, issuing commands in their primarch's stead. As Fal finished, Horus sighed.

"Such a waste. It is good Gerlkun had died, otherwise he would have had to face my wrath." The flexing of the Talon showed just what kind of wrath the dead Legion Master would have experienced.

"How many survived? How many of my brothers still live?" he asked, hearing reports in the background and the slow dying of weapons' fire signalling the battle was near to ending.

Horus turned to one of his moon-bearing captains, who whispered something not even Fal's hearing could catch. The primarch's face did not betray his emotions, though Fal thought he saw a tightening around the eyes and mouth.

"Shade Lord Arkhas Fal, I am afraid that only six thousand XIX legionnaires remain."

Fal felt numb as he heard the number. When the fleet had arrived to Tasskio, the Legion had numbered twenty-nine thousand. Damn Gerlkun! Damn him!

The primarch's other words suddenly registered with Fal.

"Shade Lord? I… I cannot-"

"You are the senior most ranking officer left among your Legion, and you fought for survival admirably. Shade Lord is your variant of Legion Master, correct?" Fal nodded, Horus continued, "The XIX will need to be rebuilt, and I can tell you will be crucial to that."

He was right, of course. Fal inherited the command and would now have to wield it effectively to ensure his Legion survived.

"Yes, my lord."

* * *

 **Subha II**

 _One hundred and sixty-three years before the Dropsite Massacre_

Cold wind whistled through the mountains, bringing with it loose razor-sharp rocks and piercing ice. Protected as he was by armour, Fal ignored the wind, though he calculated the speed so he could compensate.

Looking out over the mountain range, the name was nearly incomprehensible to Imperial tongues; Fal thought back on how this campaign came to pass. The years since the disaster on Tasskio had seen the Nineteenth Legion permanently attached to the Sixteenth Legion, at least until the XIX fully recovered. Nearly two decades of recruitment and intensive training had seen their numbers rise from six thousand to almost thirteen thousand but it still wasn't enough.

Fal did not mind being attached to the XVI. They were excellent warriors, valued comrades, and good hosts. Horus has been more than welcome to the primarch-less legionnaires, acting as somewhat of a surrogate father. In nineteen years of being assigned to the Wolves, the XIX had fought in seventeen major campaigns, with the Compliance of Subha II being the latest. This compliance would not only bring another world into the Imperium, it would avenge those that perished on Tasskio.

The Thezsuum, that wretched xenos species, had evaded Imperial retribution fleets for years, making some Imperial strategists believe they were a nomadic race. That was until the discovery of Subha II. This planet, cold and seemingly inhospitable as it is, was home to a space-faring species: the Thezsuum.

The opening phase of the war saw the alien fleet destroyed, their orbital defences crippled and their void-habitats occupied. With the void secure, the planetary invasion began. It was during this second phase that the Imperium discovered something: the Thezsuum kept humans as slaves.

The war changed from conquest to liberation. Two weeks had passed since the invasion, and now only a single stronghold remained: their capital city. Nestled in a valley, flanked by seemingly impenetrable mountains and protected by interlocking dome shields, the city, and in turn the valley, was a fortress. Horus Lupercal besieged the stronghold and was slowly pushing down the valley into the city proper, but it was slow going. Final completion of the campaign was estimated to be six weeks away at current rate of advancement. Horus asked for a contingent of Imperial Fists nearby to assist in the siege, and they were on their way, but Lupercal was becoming impatient, even more so after the latest transmission from Him.

The Emperor was currently in the midst of a campaign and had asked for Horus to fight beside Him. It galled the First Found to have to delay joining his father for a minor campaign, but he could not just leave once battle had begun. He would see it finished.

To repay Horus for his generosity, and to end the campaign sooner, Fal had volunteered the XIX to use its skills at sabotage and infiltration to end the siege.

Climbing the mountains, which were nestled with anti-air guns that would shoot down any dropship that neared them, was difficult. Avoiding detection made the climb take longer, but after several hours, Fal and thirty handpicked XIX legionnaires now stood on the cusp of the mountainside. Similar units dotted across the mountains, each Space Marine hefting a bulky jet pack for manoeuvrability.

Thaes Balfur moved up beside him, now a sergeant.

"Shade Lord, we are ready."

"Good. We embark in," he checked his helmet's chrono, "two minutes. Ready the men."

"Yes, sir."

Balfur motioned for the legionnaires to join their Shade Lord on the ledge. They looked down upon the alien city, its shields flickering. All was silent.

Fal saw his chrono count down: three… two… one.

Artillery thundered from the Imperial lines. Overhead, Army and XVI Legion gunships and bombers pummelled the Thezsuum lines. On the ground, hundreds of thousands of Army soldiers and tens of thousands of legionnaires marched forward, supported by tanks of varying models and armoured vehicles. Titans from the Legio Mortis advanced, bringing the wrath of the Machine Cult to the fray.

Fal opened a link to the XIX infiltration squads.

"Legionnaires of the XIX, secure your objectives, move swiftly and mercilessly. For the Emperor."

Fal activated his jet, its thrusters melting the snow beneath, the others following suit.

"And brothers," he added, "kill them all."

Fal leaped from the ledge, knowing the rest would follow. The mountainside was only two metres away, black rock and white snow. It was... beautiful? Such concepts rarely passed through his thought process. His was a mind geared and honed for war. It was what he was good at it. It was what he enjoyed.

He fell towards the city, the wind buffeting him as he fell but his previous made calculations compensated for the aerial turbulence. As he fell towards the interlocking dome shields, he braced himself.

An oddity of the Thezsuum shield technology was that while it was highly effective at resisting high-explosive or energy based weaponry, it was far less so against slower moving objects such as thrown knifes or slow moving vehicles.

Or an Astartes with a jet pack.

Fal activated his reverse thrusters just above the shields, slowing him down considerably. As his boots touched the shield, they resisted… for a moment. Then he began to sink through as if in thick sludge. His armour's machine-spirit issued warnings, red runes dotting his visor and notifications beeping incessantly, but Fal ignored them. It was expected after all.

Passing through them fully, his armour shut down due to the electro-magnetic surge that temporarily overloaded his suit's shielding. He began to freefall to the city, some of the high spires becoming dangerously close. He was fifteen hundred metres from the ground floor and rapidly falling.

His armour's machine spirit stirred from its blackout. Awakening, it began to reboot the suit, runes and algorithms scrolling past his feed as it did so.

One thousand metres.

No gunfire rose to meet them. The Thezsuum's full attention was on the obvious assault in front of them. Such arrogance would be paid for in blood.

Five hundred metres.

The heavily modified Mark II battle-plate finished its diagnostics and Fal regained control. He immediately attempted to reverse thrust. His jet pack failed to ignite.

He did not panic. He was an Astartes and the Emperor declared that they shall know no fear.

Four hundred metres.

Several legionnaires activated their packs and began to fall in a controlled manner.

Three hundred metres.

The jet pack's thruster fizzled for a moment but died.

Two hundred metres. Most of the other Astartes' packs had reignited.

One hundred metres.

His machine-spirit's attempts to reconnect with the pack finally bore fruit. The link was re-established. Immediately he activated his reverse thrusters and slowed down, but his momentum could not be stopped fully in the distance remaining.

Fal impacted the ground, hard, causing the stone pavement to fracture. He felt something in his knees break, but his body was already responding to it. Within seconds, he could move without issue, the pain having been side-lined.

Balfur landed next to him, looking at him to see if he was alright. Fal assured him with a nod.

"Move out," Fal ordered.

The three squads spread out, one heading to the nearest shield generator, with another heading towards a known munitions depot, and the third led by Fal heading towards a communication tower.

Few locals, human or alien, were seen on the streets as curfew was in effect. Seeing the humans following the aliens' commands, always with joy plastered on their face, sickened him. They may be human physically, but their minds were warped by lifelong servitude and whatever machinations the Thezsuum inflicted on their human cattle.

Infiltration squads from the other contingents voxed they were in position. Fal confirmed with them as his team neared the tower.

Only a block away, the tower was an impressive conglomeration of engineering. Shaped like a six-pointed star, with thick cable wiring hanging heavy in the air, the tower controlled and boosted communications for the Thezsuum for their city, with minor towers elsewhere bouncing the signal back and forth.

Guarding it was close to five hundred human slave-soldiers. Behind them, overseeing, were dozens of Thezsuum. The xenos were hunched over and still they towered over humans. If straightened out they would have been taller than even Astartes. Their skin was grey-white in colour, with splotches of green and purple, their eyes black as night. That last detail was similar to every legionnaire in the XIX. Whether a gift from their lost primarch or a genetic mutation, it mattered not. It was a benefit in night-time operations, among other things.

The xenos had elongated skulls, and instead of ears, they had auditory holes, three on each side. Their hands were more akin to claws and all were clothed in an odd combination of armour, glass, and what looked to be fur.

Filthy beasts.

"Squad Fal, execute."

All of the legionnaires opened fire, cutting down human and xenos officers, judging by their insignia, and heavy weapon specialists. Bolter fire was supported by a compact rocket launcher, which destroyed a walker-tank that had just begun to stir its turrets to face the Imperials, and a las cannon beam tore through rank after rank of lightly armoured mortals. Their blood covered the ground and steam rose from their corpses.

Such was the fate of those too weak to defy their oppressors.

The humans were well-trained, that was much was clear by their rapid response, but they had never fought the Imperium's Legiones Astartes up close, and they were reeling with conflicting orders as subalterns attempted to take command after their superiors had been shredded by bolts.

After the first clip of bolts was fired, the legionnaires charged, reloading as they did so. Ejecting the empty clip, replacing it with a fresh one, and triggering his chainsword was second nature to Fal. Once reloaded, he unleashed Mars-forged shells upon a dozen humans, each taking one shot, their innards exploding outwards. A Thezsuum he neared whipped it's too-long head towards him, raising an oddly shaped sword to fight, only to be cut down by the chainsword as it churned through the alien's neck muscles. The xenos were fast, but not transhuman fast. Bright orange ichor sprayed from the cut, some landing on Fal's armour. The blood began to hiss at it was mildly acidic and scratched away at some of the paint of the sword and plate. Flicking to get the majority off, he entered deeper into the fray.

He danced a dance of flawless execution and trained death-dealing. Alien and mortal fell beneath the blades of the Emperor's Angels of Death. Fal entered into the frenzy of war, his mind honed to a point's edge of focus. Nearing the tower's primary entrance, corpses of the enemy littering about, he fired three shots into the door and shouldered into it. The metal held for a second, but bent inwards, breaking off its hinges.

Inside, a squad of mortals and three Thezsuum raised their weapons but were gunned down by the legionnaires emerging from behind Fal. The enemy formation broke, several mortals running in fear until silenced forever.

"Set melta charges."

Four XIX Astartes began setting the charges across the interior's support columns. They moved upstairs, killing what few targets remained, and set more across cogitators, databanks and other archeotech that Fal could not easily identify. Once set, the Astartes departed the building, and Fal pushed the detonator. The tower's interior became an inferno of superheated plasma, burning through the building, killing what few human and xenos that had avoided the quick insertion.

With the tower down, enemy communications would suffer greatly, their own shields impairing their strategy. That advantage did not last long as other objectives were met. Shield generator after shield generator, followed by munitions depots and motor pools, burned with Imperial retribution. As several of the domes weakened and cut out, dropships bearing the Aquila and the Lunar Wolf began a rapid descent. Some were shot down by AA fire, but more made it through. Fal could see several fighter-bombers eliminating the AA nests on the mountain sides and tops.

He moved to an open field nearby the tower and waited. Within a minute of arriving, eleven dropships had set down, unleashing their deadly cargo. The squads that emerged were not donned in the traditional white and black of the Luna Wolves, but the all black of the Justaerin, the Sixteenth Legion's elite shock troops. At their head was an immense warrior, one who at a glance could be mistaken for the primarch if one were to subtract a topknot and marginally shorten Lupercal's height.

First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon moved to beside Fal. The First Captain scanned the area, issuing orders to his squads. Abaddon looked at Fal and held out his arm. The Shade Lord clasped it in a warriors' grip.

"Fine work, Arkhas, fine indeed."

"Thank you, Ezekyle."

"Lupercal is pleased with you. He will not forget this." And with that Abaddon was off, the primarch's favoured son intent on bleeding the enemy to the bone.

Balfur approached him. "Sir, orders?"

Fal checked his bolt pistol and chainsword, seeing that both remained in fighting condition. He looked at Balfur, their red helm lenses locked on one another before Fal turned to move, seeing that several more XIX squads had reconvened with him. Losses had been light, only two that he could see, but there was bound to be more. But their deaths were not in vain, they served a purpose: vengeance had been attained.

"We finish this."

* * *

 **Onboard the battle-barge** _ **Ebon Blade**_

 _Sixty-eight years before the Dropsite Massacre_

The vocal silence was deafening, the hangar bay echoing nothing but the hum of armour and quiet noises of servos. Thirty thousand legionnaires, clad in freshly painted black with white trim armour stood at uneasy attention. Thirty thousand pair of eyes were locked onto the primarch before them who stood atop a Land Raider. The primarch, a being akin to a demigod of old, was dark of hair and eye, skin pale as freshly fallen snow.

He was Corvus Corax, the Deliverer, Saviour of Deliverance, Liberator, the Ravenlord, a newly found primarch, and a battle-hardened warrior.

Shunner.

Fal stood in the front ranks, standing beside officers that had fought beside him for a century and a half. They looked to him, faces wrought with trepidation. He knew that he should do something, say something. He was the Shade Lord, Legion Master for over a century. What had recently passed must have been a mistake, a miscalculation on Corax's part. Yes, that had to be it.

Fal moved forward to his father, but two legionnaires stopped him, their stance hostile. Fal stopped. He took off his helm slowly, attempting to control his anger. Looking at them with his flesh eyes, Fal grimaced.

Shadow Wardens, protectors of the primarch, dared to defy him! He was Arkhas Fal, Shade Lord! His name had been etched in Imperial chronicles more than a century before any of these pups had been nursed at their mothers' teats. The atmosphere in the hangar became tense, hands itching to go to weapons but the lunacy of the want shamed all.

"Let him pass."

The Wardens separated, but he did not leave their sight. Fal ignored them as he continued to his primarch. He went to one knee.

"Father, I-"

"Father?" interrupted Corax. "Hmm, perhaps by blood, but I did not choose you, nor train you, nor lead you into battle. Another had and you are more _his_ soldiers than mine. I am your father by blood only. Those from Deliverance are my only true children." By the primarch's tone, Fal knew exactly who Corax was talking about.

Fal forced his gaze downwards, face set in anger and shame.

"Horus Lupercal guided us admirably for many decades. Fa-, Lord Corvus, please, you must rescind this order."

"I must? You dare to question my methods, my designs for _my_ Legion?"

"I-, no, but fa-, Lord Corvus, you cannot abandon us. We have been looking for you for over a century. To force us out, it would break us."

"Look at me."

Fal followed the order and looked at his father's pallid face. Those eyes, black as deepest shadow, stared into Fal's very being. They were piercing and unforgiving.

"You of the pre-discovery XIX have served my father admirably, and that I thank you. But I now command the Nineteenth Legion, to do as I see fit and to expand Imperial might across the stars. The way I deem best is for the post-discovery XIX to slowly grow into what I envision them to be, and for you, those that have awaited and searched for me, to head deep into unknown space. There, you shall conquer with bolt, sword and words. In the unknown, you will experience victory or death for the Imperium."

The Shade Lord exhaled.

"Now, Legion Master, do you accept my decree?"

 _No! Defy him! Go to Horus! Decry the order! Resist!_

There was a pregnant pause.

"I… I accept, my lord primarch."

Corax stared at him for a moment, then nodded and made way to the waiting dropship, its pilots prepping for launch.

The primarch left the _Ebon Blade_ and its escorts, heading towards the newly constructed _Shadow of the Emperor_ and the fleet hovering around it protectively. Two fleets, both Raven Guard, but forever separate. Fal turned to look at his brothers, his Terran brothers. Many looked shocked, or shook their head in disbelief. One yelled and hit a container, denting the metal as it skidded across the floor.

They were not true Raven Guard legionnaires, not in Corax's eyes. They were placeholders who had turned over the mantle of the XIX to its true inheritors. Fal and his Terran brothers were not Raven Guard, but outcasts.

Clenching his fists, he began to issue orders. The 376th Expeditionary Fleet had been ordered to the fringes of known space by a primarch, their primarch, and they would follow their primogenitor's orders… for now.

* * *

 **Tarsean Rift, above Yvir**

 _Thirty-three years before the Dropsite Massacre_

"ETA?" Arkhas Fal barked at the servitor.

"Fifteen minutes until teleport range."

Arkhas Fal, Shade Lord of the Outcast, grunted. "The fleet?"

Captain Thaes Balfur looked up from a cogitator monitor, "Engaging the Dark Eldar. Three xenos warships have been destroyed, another six are being boarded. The rest are responding to our arrival."

"Send Sixth and Ninth Company to reinforce the orbitals, Thirteen and Twentieth to assist the World Eater battlegroup. They look to be nearly wiped out."

"Yes, my lord."

Detachments of the 376th Expeditionary Fleet broke off from the main body, heading towards their objectives, while the bulk hurled itself towards the centre of the xenos fleet, destroying the once elegant alien ships. Hulls were rend asunder, air hissed into the void, and lithe alien figures were sucked out, quickly freezing and drifting into the endlessness of space.

The _Ebon Blade_ , flagship of the Outcast, unleashed its immense arsenal against the Dark Eldar raiding vessels, comparable to destroyers in size but grand cruisers in strength. Nonetheless, they fell beneath the guns of an Imperial battle-barge.

"Teleport?"

"We are in range, parameters acceptable."

"You have command of the _Blade_ , Thaes. I am joining the ground assault."

"As you will, sir."

Fal departed the bridge, command squad following him. Quickly making way to the teleport, he joined the Cataphractii-armoured Astartes already there. Fal was thankful to have them. Corax's dislike of them ensured a majority of the Terminator armour designated for the Raven Guard made its way to the Outcast. One of the few benefits they experienced.

He donned his helmet, information and tactical vox-chatter forming a canvas, a canvas in which he would paint the finality of this war. He snorted softly at himself. Fighting beside the Emperor's Children for six months had rubbed off on him.

The tech-priest configured her cogitator. She looked up, four glowing and whirring green eyes focusing on Fal.

"Ready," she intoned, voice augmetic.

"Initiate."

She followed his command. The signs followed as aetheric energy wormed its way across the teleport dais. His tongue began to itch, his teeth ached, and a pressure began in the base of his skull.

"Brothers," he began.

"Three…" said the tech-priest.

"We reinforce the city's centre, link up with Twelfth Legion remnants, and secure any Imperial citizens and military supplies. The Dark Eldar shall regret-"

"Two…"

"-invoking the wrath of the Old Nineteenth. No remorse, no mercy. Give them death."

"One…"

They entered the shallows of the Immaterium. Just a split second, transporting thousands of kilometres in an instant, and then they were there, standing atop the dirt and rock of the Imperial colony Yvir. Corpses, human Imperials, lay scattered about. Two World Eaters lay dead beside a heavy bolter emplacement, seven Dark Eldar lying alongside them. Dark blood, empty shells, and limbs littered the ground.

The Terminators secured the area, Fal and his command squad moving forward.

"Where to, sir?" asked Sergeant Tysk, his equerry.

"To the governor's palace. That is where the last Imperial transmissions came from. Move out."

They ran, all fifty legionnaires. On the way through the hab-blocks and downtown districts they saw the aftermath of the xenos' initial attack. Fal ignored the thousands dead. He had seen far worse many times over. This was nothing new, this was reality. The weak die and the strong reap the spoils. It was nothing more than stark galactic truths.

Two squads of xenos were eliminated for the loss of three Outcast.

 _Damn. Our losses are getting worse. Fighting without support from the rest of the Legion has reaped its toll on us out here on the fringes. We of the Old are dying off. An inevitable and likely purposeful effect of their banishment on Corax's part._

Running up beside the planetary governor's palace, dozens of alien corpses lay beside five World Eaters. There were nearly two hundred more still standing, their lithe forms clad in exotic armour and wielding deadly weapons. They turned to face the Raven Guard. Fal saw that the palace's doors were closed, barricaded from the inside most like.

 _The Dark Eldar couldn't get in. Good. Now we-_

The palace's doors burst outwards, disgorging nearly sixty white with blue trim armoured legionnaires. They were formed in a phalanx box formation, shields raised, chain weapons cutting down surprised xenos and bolters cutting others down. The World Eaters entered the centre of the war-torn courtyard, then dispersing in pairs of two to eliminate the enemy. Fal saw one World Eater, his helm sporting an officer's crest and captain's insignia, reaping his way through a demi-squad of Dark Eldar. The XII legionnaire saw him as well.

"Engage," the Shade Lord said.

The Outcast Raven Guard entered the fray and within moments all of the Dark Eldar lay dead, another handful of both Legions also freshly deceased. Apothecaries from both Legions began to collect the gene-seed, the cracking of metals, cartilage and bone filling the air, while in the background weapons fire began to die down across the city.

Fal moved to the Twelfth Legion captain, who removed his helmet, revealing a shaved head, tanned skin, and piercing eyes. Fal mirrored the action and the two faced one another.

"Captain Daerik, Ninety-Seventh Company, Twelfth Legion."

"Shade Lord Arkhas Fal, Outcast, Nineteenth Legion."

Daerik nodded his head respectfully. "I thank you for coming to my assistance, Shade Lord. My company had recently completed a string of compliances throughout the Rift and came to Yvir for resupply. The Dark Eldar chose to attack us shortly after our arrival. I can only think they thought us weak, or they did not expect us to be here."

"We heard your astropathic call for reinforcement and we rushed to aid. Casualties?"

"I'm checking now." Daerik pulled out a data-slate and was getting into contact with his squad leaders. Fal did the same.

He lost thirty-four Astartes. Getting into contact with Balfur took a moment, but eventually the link was established.

"Thaes, report."

"Enemy fleet is defeated, the remnants fled to a Mandeville point."

"How many escaped?"

"None. An Imperial fleet had emerged and wiped them out."

"Another fleet? Designation?"

Legiones Astartes, 13th Expeditionary Fleet."

"13th, that's…"

"Primarch Angron's fleet," finished Daerik, he had tapped into the open link. "My father has come."

It took several hours for the 13th Expeditionary Fleet to arrive over Yvir. Five dropships emerged from its flagship: the _Conqueror_. Daerik and Fal stood at the starport's main landing pad, an honour guard of one squad from each Legion standing at attention on either side. The primarch's Stormbird settled onto the platform.

"I must warn you, Arkhas. Do not call Angron 'my lord.' He despises such titles. Also, do not stare at his scar."

Before Fal could respond, the Stormbird's ramp descended and a son of the Emperor emerged. Angron was clad in his Artificer armour, dual chainaxes magnetically locked onto his back, throwing knives adorning his forearms, waist and legs. A simple, bland bolt pistol was holstered as was a combat blade. Behind the primarch marched the Devourers, the primarch's bodyguard.

Fal began to kneel but was stopped by a gruff voice, used to command and unforgiving of weakness.

"Get up, little Raven," growled Angron as he neared. Daerik tilted his head in respect and saluted.

Fal straightened.

"How fares my brother?" asked the primarch. The friendship between the Raven and the Gladiator were well known, even to Fal.

Fal clenched his jaw in anger but nothing escaped the notice of a demigod.

"Ah, so it's true. Corvus discarded you. I love my brother, but he is foolish in this regard. I saw your fleet as I neared Yvir. Battle damage was extensive, supply ships few and far between. How much of the Outcast remain?"

"Barely fifteen thousand, less than half of what we once were."

"Shame," muttered Angron. "No matter," he said. "I will offer this to you once. Fight beside me and enjoy the benefits of battling alongside a Legion once again."

Fal's thoughts raced. The benefits far outweighed the negatives: better supply, more support, a primarch for a patron… It would be ideal. "The Outcast would gladly join the Twelfth Legion."

"Then it's settled." The primarchs pale golden eyes stared at Fal for a moment, judging, but he nodded in apparent satisfaction. "You will be satisfactory."

* * *

 **Aboard the** _ **Conqueror**_

 _Thirty-one Years before the Dropsite Massacre_

The clash of blades, the grunts of exertion and the heavy tang of sweat and blood filled the air. In the heart of the World Eaters' flagship were several circular arenas, dubbed the fighting-pits by Angron's legionnaires, a tradition carried before the discovery of the primarch but intensified under his rule. Here, honoured commander could fight lowly battle-brother with no repercussion. Here, pacts of camaraderie between brothers and cousins were made, several of whom were famous throughout the Imperium, notably Sigismund and Khârn. Other great warriors such as Ezekyle Abaddon, Eidolon, Corswain, Bjorn, Jago 'Sevatar' Sevatarion, and more had fought in the gladiator influenced fighting-pits.

After hours of combat, Shade Lord Arkhas Fal and Captain Daerik emerged from one, lathered in sweat, dirt, and drying blood. Their opponents, a sergeant and centurion from the XII's Sixteenth Company, went elsewhere, sullen after their loss.

A servitor carrying heated towels neared and Fal grabbed two, tossing one to Daerik. The Terran-born legionnaire caught it and both wiped themselves down of the majority of the grime. Their weapons had been stored away to be cleaned by Legion serfs. Another serf began depositing fresh sand in the arena, soaking up the blood, and readying it for the next match.

The waiting four combatants entered the pit, their wrists tied via chains to each other and to their weapons. It was a brawl, but one of coordination and ruthless pursuit. Such training had its faults, as it was not uncommon for a legionnaire to die here, but it made the Eaters of Worlds as fierce as they were in close combat.

"Tell me," he said to Daerik, voicing a thought that had nagged him for some time, "why chains? Your gene-sire had been a slave, then a liberator, and now a god of war. Why use chains to bind your weapons to you, or yourself to another legionnaire?"

Daerik looked up from drying himself off, his face deep in thought for a moment before he answered.

"In the city-states of Nuceria all slaves were chained, whether a pleasure girl or a pit-fighter. This mass and brutal slavery lasted centuries, if not longer, some speculate it began during the first years of Old Night. The slaves despaired and were treated no better than chattel."

Daerik threw the soiled towel at the servitor, taking an offered pitcher of water to drink.

"That changed when Angron was brought to Desh'ea, already in chains and surrounded by a thousand high rider soldiers. All the slaves had heard the stories of how Angron had been found in a remote farmstead, living with two indebted farmers. When tax collector from Desh'ea came by to collect their coin, the farmers had none to spare for it had been a succession of poor harvests due to drought. The farmers were to be enslaved for twenty years and their property sold at auction, but Angron volunteered to enter slavery so as to pay off his foster parents' debts. The Desh'ean collectors saw the physical supremacy of my primogenitor and agreed to the deal, hoping he wold bring them riches in the slave-pits. Subsequently, Angron was brought to the city-state and quickly entered the arenas. There Angron fought, and there he planned rebellions. All failed but one, the last one. The Great Rebellion of Desh'ea saw Angron annihilate the high rider families and establish a republic with him as its undisputed head. The years that followed saw Angron conquer the rest of Nuceria as a liberator and conqueror. Throughout that entire time, the primarch never fought without the chains around his wrists and weapons.

"To him, it resembled not hopelessness per se, but defiance. The chains of oppression had brought the slaves of Nuceria together, had forged a new government in blood, sweat and toil, and cemented that the only ones you can trust werethe weapons you tightly gripped and your brothers-in-arms. With Angron's discovery many traditions were adopted. The chains were merely one."

Daerik sipped the tepid water before setting the pitcher down.

"To us the chains that bound our wrists are a reminder to never be a slave to anyone, no matter who claims to be our supposed master. To us the chains are interlinking bonds of brotherhood that have kept us together throughout the Great Crusade. To us the chains represent strength between a legionnaire, his blade, and his brother beside him. To us the chains are true freedom, odd as that might sound. Does this make sense to you?"

Fal pondered what his friend of two years had said, contemplating their meaning.

"Yes, it does. I see now, thank you."

Daerik nodded, pleased. "Good." The fighting in the pit ended, the defeated stalking off and the victors embracing in a warriors' grip.

"Another round?" asked Daerik.

"Naturally," Fal said, rising up for the next challenge.

* * *

 **Ullanor**

 _Three years before the Dropsite Massacre_

Victory. True victory, at last. The Imperium was triumphant over the Orks; the galaxy now lay open to the Imperium, ripe for the taking. Fal walked in front of Balfur and two guards, greeting comrades from several Legions. It had been a day since the Emperor departed after naming Horus Lupercal Warmaster of the Imperium and the mood was celebratory. Fal had stood in the ranks assembled before the Emperor and His Sons, his command ensuring him to be within visual and ocular range.

While Sanguinius, Fulgrim, Lorgar, Mortarion, Dorn, Guilliman and others went to congratulate the Sixteenth Primarch, Fal had saw a momentary flicker of annoyance and anger flash across Angron's face. He only saw it due to his close proximity to the Twelfth Primarch these last three decades and familiarity with him.

 _He desired it. He deserved it, more so than that abandoner Horus._

The only thing that pleased Fal that day had been the knowledge that Corax would be livid when he discovered Horus now would be his military commander. Angron and Corax might be the closest of brothers, but no matter how hard the Gladiator tried to reconcile the Raven Primarch with his Outcast sons, the Ravenlord was content to ignore them. No matter, he thought. The Emperor left them in the hands of His Favoured Son, Horus abandoned them, Corax shunned them, but Angron welcomed them.

Scores of campaigns had been fought during those three decades of companionship, and though many Outcast had died, none had died as cannon fodder or distraction. They fought and died side-by-side their World Eater cousins.

Fal walked through massive camp where detachments of nearly every Legion awaited their turn to return to their ship and depart the planet. The orbital traffic was so thick that it was estimated it would be another week before Fal and the eleven thousand Outcast, all those that now remained, would be lifted to their fleet to return to the Crusade's frontlines alongside the XII.

He was in a general good mood today, though, unlike yesterday. Yesterday he had felt anger at the Emperor for choosing Horus over Angron, but today he was pleased. Brotherhoods and oaths were renewed, and the camp was awash with celebration and merriment.

Fal kept his opinions of the previous day to himself as not all in the Outcast saw the Emperor and Horus for what they really were. Balfur might hate Corax, but his opinion of the Master of Mankind and the First Found were too positive for Fal's taste. Despite this, both chatted with one another enjoyably as they searched for Captain Daerik.

They found the XII legionnaire, who sat beside a squad of Space Wolves, drinking _mjod_ and exchanging stories. Two humans adorned in the furs and leathers of Fenris stood nearby, their attention focused on the stories being told. Daerik emptied a mug of the alcoholic brew, smacking his lips in appreciation.

"Not bad," he said, causing the Space Wolves to roar and howl with laughter, clapping the World Eater on the back.

Fal moved to beside Daerik, laying a hand on shoulder. "Careful, Daerik, I hear these Fenrisians spike their drinks with wolf piss," he jested.

A Sixth Legion sergeant knocked his head back in laughter, slamming his hand onto the thick wooden table. " _Hjolda!_ The piss is merely flavouring." All assembled chuckled at that.

"What do we have here?" came a voice from behind. Fal turned and his laughter quickly died off.

Three Astartes in black armour with white trim, a white raven on their shoulder pads, looked at the legionnaires from the VI, the XII, and those who wore the same colours as them.

The one in the centre was large, even for an Astartes, his neck and arms bulging with muscle.

"And who might you be, brother?" Balfur asked, voice clipped and neutral.

"Brother? Ha! We share nothing but livery and blood. A mistake on both ends in my opinion."

Balfur stiffened at that but stopped as Fal blocked his way with a hand.

"My captain asked you a question, legionnaire." Fal could see no rank on the Astartes before him.

"Kaedes Nex, Moritat-Prime."

Fal felt himself go still. The Moritats of the XIX were known as butchers, Nex being by far the worst. A convicted criminal on Deliverance before being chosen for the Legiones Astartes by Corax himself. Nex saw his expression and sneered.

"Think I'm a murderer do you? Well, it is common knowledge of the 'incidents' that took place when you fought beside Horus. Yes, yes, we know all about that. You were his grey-coloured butchers then. The Sixteenth Legion was too 'honourable' to do some of the necessary handiwork on several compliant worlds so they had you do it. Millions killed, and the stain of all that cling to your hands and not him. Now he is Warmaster, and you a whipped dog hunting for a master, desperate to be petted on the head."

Fal did not realize he had moved until Balfur and Daerik restrained him, holding his arms so they could not strike at the smug-looking Nex. The Space Wolves rose, bringing their empty iron encased mugs to use as a possible weapon. Several Astartes had combat blades and pistols, hands laying atop them in threat.

"I will not hear Warmaster Horus be denigrated in my presence nor that of my oath-brothers!" the Space Wolf sergeant loudly stated.

Fal saw Balfur nod fervently at that. He did not care what others thought of Horus, but he did care about the reputation of his Outcast. How dare Nex, a true murderer, condemn Fal when he had been following the dictates of the Crusade to the letter in removing rebellious non-compliant populations to ensure Imperial law and order reigned.

The three sons of Corax sensed the hostile attitude of those nearby.

"Let's go. These false Ravens hold no interest of mine." Nex and his two compatriots left, joining the ever moving crowd, disappearing after several steps into that tide.

Fal exhaled heavily, clenching and unclenching his fingers.

"Come, Arkhas, ignore them."

"I will. I will ignore them because we are not part of them. We are something different, something more pure than the Raven Guard." He spat on the ground the Raven Guard had so recently left. Turning, he went to re-join the festivities, but thoughts plagued his mind.

 _We do not need them. We do not need them. We do NOT!_

* * *

 **Aboard the** _ **Conqueror**_

 _Present day_

Fal looked at the chain then back to Angron.

"Slavery is being held by the chain, subservient to it, controlled by an outsider. Freedom is recognising the chain is a bond between you, your weapon and your brothers. Slavery is death, freedom is loyalty. Slavery is the choice being made by others and forced to follow it; freedom is you making the choice and abiding by your word."

Angron nodded once, moving to stand in front of Fal.

"You know what is coming, yes?"

Fal answered without hesitation. "Yes."

"And your choice?"

Fal thought of Balfur, Abaddon, and Daerik All were known loyalists who would need to be taken care of. They were friends, but not someone who he would follow unto death. Angron was that individual, earning it through blood spilled together and bonds forged of metal and loyalty.

"I follow you, Angron the Red Angel, wherever that takes me. I will defy the Emperor if that is what you wish."

Angron stared at him then exhaled. "It is." Angron motioned with the chain. "Extend your right hand."

Fal did so, watching as Angron wrapped his hand in an intricate pattern with the chain, wrapping around the primarch's own right hand as well. A dagger was brought out, resting in the Gladiator's free hand.

"Wronged by others, denied what is truly ours, and lied to as a master would to a slave, we rebel to gain our freedom." Fal repeated the words.

"You are no longer Outcast, as you are no longer Raven Guard. You are legionnaires loyal to me and to me alone. You will be known henceforth as the Chainsworn."

"I am the first of the Chainsworn, the first link that binds us to you," Fal said.

"Then it is done. Shade Lord of the Chainsworn, purge the Outcast."

"As you will it, Crimson One."

Angron shrugged off the chain, fastening it about Fal's arm, placing the dagger in his hand. Fal departed the chamber without looking back. The Devourers were nowhere to be seen but he knew they were watching him. This would be the test that proved his loyalties.

Arriving to the chamber he departed not too long ago, he saw Balfur still observing Gasnea Prime. The Outcast captain turned, frowning at the chain. Fal hid the blade from view.

"What is that for?" Balfur asked to the approaching Shade Lord, gesturing at the chain.

Fal stood in front of Balfur, blade still hidden. "A symbol of unbreakable brotherhood."

Before Balfur could respond, Fal twisted the knife for the blade to face outwards and thrust it under the chin of his dear friend. Balfur gazed upon him, shocked, the dagger having pierced flesh and bone, entering into the brain. Blood flooded from Balfur's mouth and he tried to speak, but was already dying, his transhuman physiology unable to heal this mortal wound.

Fal should have said something as his friend died by his hand, but he did not. He would not legitimise his decision to a dying brother, nor ask for forgiveness. He watched as Balfur sunk to his knees, arms weakly pawing at Fal's chest until the Outcast captain slumped to the ground, blood continuing to spill from the wound and mouth.

A moment passed, Fal watching the still figure of Thaes Balfur. The first of the Chiansworn put on his helm, selected a secondary vox channel of the Outcast. Only those he deemed loyal to Angron and himself more so than the Emperor, Horus and Corax would hear what he was about to say.

"No longer Outcast, but Chainsworn. Falling Raven, execute."

He turned off the vox, not wishing to hear what was about to happen across the Raven Guard ships that made up the 376th Expeditionary Fleet. Operation Falling Raven was the purge of loyalists from their ranks, estimated to be several hundred. Even now, battle-brothers would be executed throughout the fleet, either in groups or isolated and finished off silently. It was brutal, bloody work, but it was necessary.

Fal gripped the chain covering his right hand.

 _It was necessary._

* * *

 **Author's Note** : The next update will be the Imperial Fists Index which I will start work on soon enough after finals. Enjoy.


	20. Imperial Fists

**Imperial Fists – Stalwart Defenders**

 _"I have marred the beauty of my father's house. Gone are the great displays of art, the marbled heroes, and the painted frescoes. Replaced by gun turrets, artillery, barbed wire and fortified bunkers. Horus tells me all can be restored once the storm has passed, but I am not sure. Even if the magnificence of the Palace was fully restored, we have lost something that can never be replicated. Perturabo sees it, knows it, and has made contingencies for it. Some have been showed to me in the highest confidence. I am pleased to know that no matter what happens in the next few months, the Imperium will have my brother the Iron King to renew it, to heal the wounds that assail it, and to construct barriers to keep out the legions of madness. I may be a builder, but he is an architect. The Architect._

 _I suspect that I will not survive the final battle. I do not know why, for I do not have the gift of Sanguinius or the curse of Konrad. It is a feeling, a suspicion, that haunts my waking moments, but I will not shirk from it. If it means the survival of the Imperium, then I will gladly give my life for my father."_

-Excerpt from the private writings of Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists

 **Origins-**

Few Legions were held to the degree of respect and high esteem during the Great Crusade than the Imperial Fists. Noble of character, just of action and paragons of the Imperial ideal, the Seventh Legion solidified itself as one of the great mantles onto which the Imperium of Man was built upon. Across the width and breadth of the Imperial-controlled galaxy, marble statues were made of the Emperor's Seventh Son and praised. Later, their defence of the Imperium during the Heresy and their partaking in the construction of the Iron Cages after the Scouring cemented their position as one of the stoic defenders of the Emperor's Realm. This all came about due to the nature of their primogenitor: Rogal Dorn.

When the Ruinous Powers scattered the primarchs across the galaxy, the primarch bearing the simple name of Seventh landed on an Ice World called Inwit, on the edge of the Segmentum Tempestus, not far from the border that led into the Segmentum Solar. Nothing is known of the first few months of the primarch's arrival, for he lived in the arctic wastes where even the natives found life impossible, but by the time he was found by a roaming host of hunter-gatherers, the primarch was near fully grown. The humans who discovered him were awestruck and swiftly brought him before their caste chief, Adalbert of House Dorn, patriarch of one of the largest castes on the planet.

The young primarch impressed the Inwitian patriarch, retelling of those early months of survival in the wastes and learning basic human communication in the week it took to arrive to the caste's principal stronghold, showing advanced intellect and that the primarch was a hardy survivor. The caste patriarch took him under his wing, naming him Rogal of House Dorn.

Rogal learned quickly, mastering the Inwitian tongue, a variant of Low Gothic, in mere days. From there, the Seventh learned from the Dorn patriarch, whom he referred to with fond remembrance as "grandfather," leadership, battle tactics, diplomacy, and law. Within months Rogal became a commander of the caste army, and after several easily won battles against rival castes, became the commanding general of the Dornian military.

Several years after adopting Rogal, Adalbert was on his deathbed. The patriarch had been an old and frail man for many years and his health could no longer endure, despite the efforts of the best doctors available. As his dying wish and lacking trueborn children, Adalbert made Rogal his official heir and next patriarch. Rogal stood by his grandfather as the man passed away. Excerpts taken from the patriarch's attendees note that the normally stoic and seemingly cold primarch, wept for the first and only time. Adalbert Dorn's funeral ceremony was conducted with full honours and the pyre was set ablaze by his adopted grandson himself.

 _The pale blue flower petals caught the wind and fell among the procession. Women and children threw the petals, their tears cooling on their cheeks. Men in sombre black flanked the casket. Atop laid Adalbert Dorn, patriarch of the most powerful caste on Inwit. Leading the funeral column, adorned in black armour and a fur-edged robe, was Rogal of the House of Dorn._

 _The face was akin to chipped granite, eyes the colour of azure stone and hair the shock white of an Inwitian winter. Rogal stepped across the crunched snow, staring straight ahead. At the end of the path was a large ironwood pyre doused in oil, flanked by coal. He stood before it, the pallbearers laying his grandfather to rest._

 _A man-at-arms handed him a torch and stepped back. Rogal was not one for speeches but he knew he had to say something._

 _"Adalbert once said to me," he began, voice loud and clear and easily heard by all the thousands attending, "that the character of a man can be determined by loss."_

 _None spoke, all listened to him. The shuffling of feet crunching snow was the only sound to be heard. Even the sobbing had stopped._

 _"He told me that there will be times of struggle, of pain. These should not shirked from, but embraced like an old friend. If a man can take the pain, the struggle, the loss, then he becomes ever the stronger for it. Loss will not break the man, it will mould him."_

 _Rogal stepped forward, alighting the pyre with the torch. The oil caught quickly and flames began to lick at the ironwood, inching its way to Adalbert's corpse._

 _"A great man has passed, but his legacy will live on far past his life. To the future!"_

 _The crowds behind him shouted the words. "To the future! To the future! To the future!" all the while, Rogal watched as the flames consumed his grandfather. He thumbed the fur-edged robe, one of the few possessions of Adalbert that Rogal retained. The shouting died down and the pyre burned itself out._

 _Not much time passed before men-at-arms entered the blackened pyre, the flames having gone cool, and reverently lifted the ash and bones of Adalbert, to forever entomb him with honour in the Dorn crypts. From behind Rogal, now the last Dorn, came a shuffling that was echoed by tens of thousands._

 _He turned and saw all of his people, from frailest elder to youngest child, kneel, heads bowed. Dorn knew this was their way of acknowledging him for the first time as patriarch. It was humbling and he knew he could not fail his people. Stepping forward, bypassing his subjects the same thought continued to echo in his mind. He could not fail, he would not, no matter the cost._

Under Rogal's expert direction, the House of Dorn rapidly conquered both militarily and diplomatically their enemies, forged strong alliances with other powerful castes, and steadily improved their standing on Inwit. With every new city brought into the fold and industrial infrastructure integrated, Dorn's empire grew ever stronger. Within a decade of arriving to the Ice World, just five years after the death of Adalbert, Dorn had united the entire world under his wise and just rule.

After Inwit's unification, came the exploration of the void. Using newly-built starships constructed in the refurbished shipyards over the planet, these ships would travel to nearby star systems. For the next two decades the Dornian Empire expanded rapidly and quickly established colonies throughout the Inwit Cluster. Several worlds already sported human populations and almost all were brought into the empire with little to no bloodshed. As the empire grew, so too did discovery of archeotech from the Dark Age of Technology. Greatest among these discoveries was a goliath of a warship discovered abandoned in the halo of the Inwit System. This warship, called the _Phalanx_ , was a starship that would go on to become the largest known human-operated vessel in Imperial history, a feat it still holds to this day.

Shortly after unifying the Inwit Cluster under one rule, the Dornian Empire came into contact with the Imperium of Man. A massive fleet spearheaded by the Emperor's Bucephelus arrived to Inwit. Many on the icy world thought it was an invasion, but Dorn knew otherwise. He felt the psychic pulse of his father nearing and told his fleets and armies to stand down. The Emperor met Rogal Dorn aboard the Phalanx and embraced His Seventh Son. Accompanying the Emperor were the Legio Custodes, tens of millions of Army troopers, and the entirety of the Seventh Legion. The moment the Emperor descended from his dropship, Dorn swore allegiance to the Emperor and was gifted the VII as a result.

 _Twenty thousand legionnaires stood before him, clad in grey armour. They were his sons and they watched him with stoicism and respect. Dorn walked down amongst them, greeting the officers, and getting a feel for those who would be under his command. Beside him walked the Master of Mankind. The Emperor's long black hair and golden eyes were a stark contrast to Dorn's own features, but there was no doubt that the being walking beside him had created him._

 _"How many others have You found?" he asked._

 _"You are the seventh."_

 _Dorn looked sidelong at the Emperor. "Interesting chance, that."_

 _"Indeed."_

 _The two walked for several moments more without speaking. Heads bowed as they passed, arms beating chestplate in salute, with several squads of Custodians patrolling through the ranks._

 _"Do you know what you will name them?" asked the Emperor._

 _Dorn knew. Yes, he knew. He had known since he had read the campaign logs of the Unheard War and the Purge of Neptune. The Emperor had led the VII in battle and afterwards praised the VII, calling them 'My Imperial Fists' who secured victory for the Imperium in both theatres. The title was unofficial but was carried by the legionnaires with pride, similar to what the Third Legion called itself. He could not take that away nor would he want to. They were the Fists of the Imperium, and he the body._

 _"I do not need to give them one for they already have a name," Dorn activated the Legion-wide vox, "Let it be known that my sons shall henceforth be known officially as the Imperial Fists."_

 _Cheers erupted from the newly named Seventh Legion, the keeping of their Emperor-gifted title now ratified by their primogenitor causing their normal stony demeanour to crack into open celebration. Dorn raised his gauntlet and his sons followed suit._

 _The Emperor watched silently and nodded in approval._

Dorn was impressed with his Imperial Fists' combat record and after several months of accumulating with Imperial technology, tactics and with his Legion, Dorn was ready to depart. Spearheaded by the _Phalanx_ , the newly-christened Imperial Fists embarked for war once again.

 **The Great Crusade-**

Dorn was one of the first primarchs found and as a result the Imperial Fists have a long and glorious list of accolades. Such was the success of the VII in the Great Crusade that only the IX, XIII, XVI and the XVII surpassed them in worlds brought to compliance.

Throughout much of the Crusade, the Imperial Fists largely fought as a strategic reserve, moving from one side of the galaxy to the other, always plugging holes in the Imperial defences, slowing or stopping altogether xenos invasions and acting as the unbending barrier that defied empires and was a primary reason the Imperium was able to so successfully expand at the rate that it did.

Their affinity with siege warfare, specifically fortification and entrenchment, may have begun in the Legion's earliest years on Terra, but was firmly cemented without doubt during the Kaspien Gap Campaign, fought in the fifty-fourth year of the Great Crusade on the edge of the Segmentum Solar. An Ork Waaagh!, led by Warboss Hurgzgan Yellow-Tooth, attacked the poorly defended Kaspien Gap in numbers estimated to be in the several hundreds of millions. The Gap led directly into the relatively unprotected Imperial heartland, with only Imperial Army ground and naval units all that stood in the way alongside a handful of Astartes contingents. Almost the entirety of the Legiones Astartes was either out of position or in the midst of compliance and could not reinforce the Gap in any meaningful way for months, if not longer.

Only the Imperial Fists were nearby in any significant numbers, estimated around forty-one thousand. Dorn assumed command of the theatre, incorporating the various other Legion assets into his order of battle. Imperial Army, Mechanicum, PDF, Rogue Traders, and more were cobbled together for the defence as well.

Yellow-Tooth's Orks spilled from their home systems like a virus and quickly captured a half-dozen worlds. To delay them, Dorn led his void units in hit-and-run tactics that crippled the Orks ability to advance in any meaningful speed. This bought the Imperials several weeks of time. Despite his astute military mind and the firepower of the _Phalanx_ , the Orks were eventually able to assault the remaining thirteen worlds of the Gap. Instead of steamrolling through these formerly defenceless worlds, the xenos landed and were faced with fortified cities, emplacements and extensive entrenchments manned by VII legionnaires. The primarch used the allied Legion forces to continue hit-and-run tactics while he, his flagship, and ten thousand Imperial Fists moved from planet to planet, acting as a rapid reaction force, defeating the Orks and withdrawing to the next battlefield. This rotation through the Gap stiffened Imperial resolve and was critical for the theatre's survival, for if one world were to fall, then the path to the inner Segmentum Solar would be torn open. During this time, Dorn used his allied forces to their max efficiency, ensuring their strengths were used. Three companies of the Luna Wolves led by Captain Keyshen used their Legion's legendary spear-tip assault to eliminate several high ranking Ork warlords on Dassos, causing infighting to occur as a result. Several hundred Space Wolves were used as the shock troops for Imperial counter-attacks on the moons of Tyvon. An entire Great Company of the Fourteenth Legion destroyed the ammunition and fuel depots of the Ork army assaulting the Imperial Fist fortress on Rohea. This assault, done so at the hours of dusk which lent weight to the XIV chosen names for themselves, allowed the VII garrison commanded by Captain Romuald to wipe out the Orks in their entirety in the ensuing night-time offensive. Seven squads of Thousand Sons fought beside the Imperial Fists on the Ocean World of Pashah, inflicting significant warp-based damage on the alien enemy, allowing the under-manned Imperial force to endure the siege until Dorn arrived to relieve them.

For five months this continued, with casualties on both sides mounting. But as ever with most beasts of the Ork race, they were impatient and frothing at the bit to kill their great foe: Dorn. As a result, Warboss Yellow-Tooth led his entire fleet against the _Phalanx_ and its escorts in what would be known as the Battle of Black Star. The void battle would last days and see the xenos fleet suffer heavy losses but those could be replaced far more easily than the Imperials. Dorn, knowing that to fight a battle of attrition would ultimately end the VII as a Legion, goaded the Warboss to board his flagship.

Yellow-Tooth, eager to confront the one who defied him for so long, took the bait and the VII flagship became a battleground in which every corridor, intersection, docking bay, cargo room, and hab-block became a death-trap to the invaders. By the time Yellow-Tooth emerged from the slaughter onto the bridge of the _Phalanx_ , Dorn was ready. Wielding a reinforced combat shield and his highly modified chainsword _Storm's Teeth_ , the Imperial Fist Primarch faced off against the Warboss. As the two clashed, their soldiers continued to kill each other all throughout the warship, with the Space Marines slowly winning due to their tactics and training.

Though the Warboss was twice the height of Dorn, heavily muscled and reeking death, Dorn was a primarch, gene-crafted by the Master of Mankind and made to kill, conquer and never surrender. Thus the conclusion was never in doubt. Dorn killed Hurgzgan Yellow-Tooth, decapitating the beast's large head from its shoulders and displaying it to all via vid-capture. Subsequently, the Ork fleet broke apart due to Yellow-Tooth's lieutenants violently scrambling to become the new Warboss and newly arrived Imperial Fist reinforcements helped eradicate the disjointed xenos.

A month after the Battle of Black Star, reinforcements led by the Emperor, Horus and Guilliman arrived with over half of the Luna Wolves and Ultramarines. All three were impressed by what Dorn had done. With few troops and effectively no outside assistance he had decimated the Waaagh! to less than half of its former strength, retained all thirteen worlds on which he constructed fortresses on, and recaptured the worlds lost in the campaign's opening act. It was Guilliman who bequeathed the moniker 'the Unyielding One' to his Inwitian brother, honouring Dorn, and all four planned the next phase.

The defence of the Kaspien Gap decimated the Seventh Legion, which was reduced to less than ten thousand, not including detachments that were elsewhere in the galaxy. But Dorn would not retire from the war until the Orks had been annihilated. Therefore, he accompanied his brothers and father in pushing towards Yellow-Tooth's home systems, killing Orks in their millions. When the Imperial fleet arrived to the deceased Warboss' capital, Dorn and five thousand of his Fists were the first to make planet-fall, establishing a perimeter for the rest of the Imperials to land. Within a week the planet was burned to a cinder and all of the xenos were exterminated.

The Kaspien Gap Campaign forced the Seventh Legion to temporarily withdraw from the Crusade's active war-zones but they were far from idle. Replenishing the ranks and fortifying any weak spots in the Imperium were their primary duty for several years. By the time the VII had recovered enough to partake in frontline operations there were over a hundred worlds with Imperial Fist garrisons and would become some of the earliest Fortress Worlds.

Though the VII excelled at siege works and fortification, it did not mean they were weak elsewhere. Planetary assaults and urban warfare quickly became specialties of the VII under their primogenitor, adding to their already formidable resume.

Rogal Dorn's victories and character would go on to win him the heart of a majority of the Imperium and the friendship of many of his brothers. Nearly all primarchs respected Dorn and many were considered friends. It is well documented that Dorn was close to Horus, Sanguinius, Guilliman, Vulkan, and respected the Lion and Fulgrim, but the most interesting relationship was that with Perturabo.

When Perturabo was introduced to the Imperium, he made few friends outside of Horus and Magnus, least of all Dorn. Both viewed the other in a negative light for many decades, but thankfully for the Imperium it never turned violent. Both would clinically and coldly criticise the other, but their similarities, both in Legion specialty and character, brought them to regard the other in good terms overall. It was not uncommon for a company of Imperial Fists to fight side-by-side the Iron Warriors with little to no incidence, securing many victories for the Imperium.

As the years moved onwards, the healthy rivalry between the two continued until the Council of Akre that took place in the 150th year of the Great Crusade. There the primarchs debated on how the Imperium was to continue expanding at its current rate and maintain the fledging galactic empire. Discontent was rampant throughout large parts of the Imperium and would need a Legion garrison force to ensure the Imperium didn't collapse under its own weight.

As the primarchs argued, Perturabo took the floor and volunteered that the IV would perform the duties none desired to take. This surprised many of the primarchs as to volunteer for such a duty would make the garrisoning force bound to already compliant worlds and away from the glory to be earned on the Crusade's frontiers. Perturabo's selfless sacrifice allowed Dorn to truly understand his brother for the first time. Dorn rose from his throne, apologised to the Iron King for any wrongs he may have committed against him and asked for forgiveness. Perturabo was momentarily stunned but after careful thought thanked Dorn and apologised in return. As another token of mending their relationship, Dorn offered to garrison a third of the troublesome worlds to allow the Fourth Legion enough deployable assets to still remain at the forefront of the Crusade, an offer which Perturabo accepted. The two brothers then embraced for the first time and the rivalry ended that day and gave birth to close brotherhood.

The cooperation between the IV and VII, which had always previously been tinged as competition, dramatically increased in happenstance as the two Legions worked together for the Imperium's benefit. Despite both Legions having considerable amount of their Astartes constructing and manning fortresses throughout the galaxy, both continued to bring thousands of worlds to compliance.

 **Praetorian of Terra-**

As the Great Crusade reached its climax, the Emperor called for a massive campaign against the Ork-controlled Ullanor Sector. Ullanor was controlled by Urlakk Urg's and was the largest and most powerful Ork empire ever encountered by the Imperium since the Crusade's inception. If the Ullanor threat was left alone, it would act as a dagger to plunge into the Imperium's side but if it was confronted and destroyed it would hasten the end of the Great Crusade. The Emperor knew this would be a crucial battle that would decide the future of His Imperium and called six of His sons and their Legions to aid Him in this endeavour.

The Luna Wolves, Blood Angels, White Scars, Ultramarines, World Eaters, and Imperial Fists assembled in a massive war-fleet. Around four billion Imperial Army troopers and eight thousand Army naval warships were added to the Ullanor Crusade's immense military might. When the operation began, the Ultramarines and World Eaters assaulted the border systems of the sector, capturing several and drawing the attention of a majority of Urg's greenskin hordes. The White Scars went deep behind enemy lines, wreaking havoc, and drawing millions of Orks away from the reserve. With the path opened, the Emperor led the VII, IX and XVI to Ullanor directly. While the Emperor, Horus and Sanguinius led the strike against Urg's stronghold, the Imperial Fists established a fortified drop-zone, allowing reinforcements and supplies to continuously flow through. The Orks attacked the VII drop-zone several times but under Dorn's expert leadership each attack was thrown back with heavy losses for the xenos.

When Horus Lupercal killed Urlakk Urg in single combat, alien resistance melted away. Tens of millions fled Ullanor, many killed by the Phalanx-directed Imperial fleet as they evacuated the atmosphere. Victory was won and the Imperium's future seemingly secured. What followed was the Triumph, celebrating over two hundred years of crusading and the sacrifices that had been made in the process.

At the conclusion of the Triumph, the Emperor raised Horus to Warmaster and announced he would leave the Great Crusade and return to Terra. Not only that but He wanted Rogal Dorn, whom he promptly named Praetorian, and the Imperial Fists to return with Him. The Emperor explained that what He was about to do on Terra would solidify the Imperium's mastery over the stars for all time and that He desired Mankind's homeworld to be properly and impressively defended as a reflection of that supremacy.

Dorn, knowing Horus would lead the Great Crusade to its inevitable victorious conclusion and knowing that no true threat remained to compete with the Imperium, agreed and began to recall most of the VII to rendezvous in Sol. The Praetorian knew that he was the better fortress builder between he and Perturabo, but that Perturabo was the better siege master who knew how to exploit every crack and cranny, no matter how miniscule the potential weakness. To make the Imperial Palace even more impregnable than it was slated to be, Dorn asked the Iron King of Olympia to lend him a liaison that would offer unbiased criticism and constructive insight. Perturabo complied and Warsmith Barabas Dantioch accompanied the Seventh Legion as it made its way to the Sol System. As a parting gift, Perturabo crafted for Dorn a weapon of exemplary skill that only a primarch could forge. It was a longsword that would be known as the Praetorian Sword and would be a symbol of office that would long outlive him.

 _Terra. Throneworld. Imperial capital. Birthplace of humanity. It had many names, but only one truly mattered to Rogal Dorn. Home. He stared out at Mankind's homeworld, seeing extensive hives, the preserved oceans, smaller than they had once been millennia ago, and the Imperial Palace, visible from orbit._

 _Movement came from behind, soft as one could be in power armour, but easily audible for a primarch. Dorn turned to see Archamus, Master of the Huscarls, standing at attention. Dorn waved him at ease and turned back to look at Terra, the VII's armada nearing ever closer._

 _"Yes?"_

 _"It feels strange to return," remarked Archamus._

 _Dorn grunted. "That it does. It has been decades since I was last here. It hasn't changed much."_

 _Archamus moved to beside his father. Both stood in silence._

 _"Ever since the Emperor found me and introduced me to the Imperium, I have considered Terra as my home." Archamus glanced at him. "Inwit will always be my first home, but Terra, it is my true one. I was made here. It is only fitting that at the end of it all, I return."_

 _"Surely we won't be here long, my lord. A decade, no more. Fortify the Palace, then Terra, and then we can return to…" the Huscarl fell silent._

 _"Now you understand, don't you? There won't be a Crusade to return too, most like. The age of compliances, wars, massacres, and conquests is ending. The age of science, reason, logic, peace and unity are almost upon us after all these years. What use will a Legion on a war-footing be out on the edge of space? I warrant my father wishes me to be His Praetorian for all time, to help ensure the beating heart of the Imperium performs without flaw."_

 _"Sigismund thinks that there will always be war in the far future."_

 _"I am sure he is right, to a degree. Rebellions, minor xenos species, and more will nip at our heels for eternity. If, by chance, a threat ever materialises and threatens the Throneworld, the Seventh Legion will be there to protect our species' home. No matter who comes here, whatever their intent, we guard the gates."_

 _The_ Phalanx _reached its final near-orbit position._

 _"Come, Archamus," Dorn said, turning towards the door, his blood-red cape covering the yellow and black armour enamel, "we have work to do_."

Dorn's arrival with tens of thousands of legionnaires to the Sol System was celebrated by the Terran masses and the Praetorian quickly settled into office, beginning the gradual but subtle fortification of the continent-wide Imperial Palace. This continued for nearly two years and more and more Imperial Fists began to arrive to Sol as their compliance actions came to a close, while thousands more Imperial Fists were still scattered across the Imperium in various garrisoning duties.

Everything was proceeding well, the Crusade was reaching its final stages under Horus and the Emperor's work continued unabated. Then the dream for Mankind began to fall apart. A psychic attack assaulted Terra, killing tens of thousands of psykers and several million other humans, and making countless more become deranged. The Astropathic Choir was wiped out and whatever secret project the Emperor was conducting was threatened and forced to be put on hold. As deranged psyker-led cults caused riots throughout Terra's underhives, more dire news followed.

Horus was wounded on Davin and was being rushed to Terra by panicking XVI legionnaires. The Emperor called for Mortarion to assist Him and ordered the Sixth Legion to arrest Magnus. Perturabo would arrive to Terra during this time, concerned over the Warmaster. As Horus was being healed, catastrophic news reached Terra: the Wolves of Fenris had nearly wiped out the Thousand Sons, and the Night Lords had entered into a murderous spree in the Segmentum Tempestus, slaughtering billions. The Emperor order that Curze be brought to heel and Dorn, acting as His Praetorian, ordered an Imperial Armada led by Sanguinius to bring the Night Haunter back to Terra in chains and to eliminate his sadistic VIII.

What followed shortly after was the crushing Dropsite Massacre on Bellanor IV and the ascension of Fulgrim as War Commander of the Eight Traitor Legions. The era of the Great Crusade had died in the fires of treachery, never to reborn, and now the era of the Fulgrimian Heresy reigned supreme.

 **The Heresy-**

One of the first acts enacted by Dorn was to expand the powers of the Seventh Legion in Sol. Originally construed to be the defenders of the Palace's walls, and in turn Terra itself, the Imperial Fists had little in the way of authority outside of the Throneworld's atmosphere. This changed immediately after reports of the Dropsite Massacre reached the newly established Astropathic Choir.

With the Emperor's approval, the purview of the VII now encompassed the entirety of the Sol System. Interstellar trade, defence and management of the Solar Colonies, orbital traffic over all planetary bodies, and the military might of Sol all fell under the Seventh Legion's supervision. To further cement this vast extension of powers, Dorn received the fervent approval and adamant support of Horus, Mortarion, and Perturabo. Soon after the Massacre, the primarchs convened in council. Horus would direct the Imperial war effort; Perturabo would return to Olympia to suppress the rebellion there and afterwards proceed to delay the traitor advances, Mortarion would hunt down the witch cults in Terra's underbelly as his Legion cleansed itself of possible traitors, while Dorn would fortify the Throne System.

Prior to departure, Perturabo left fifteen thousand Iron Warriors behind to assist the Praetorian. Five thousand would go to Terra under Dantioch's command, continuing to improve and advise the fortification of the Throneworld. Ten thousand under the command of Warsmith Erasmus Golg joined Captain Camba-Diaz to aid the Throne-loyal Mechanicum forces on Mars after Adept Lukas Chrom's Dark Mechanicum launched its surprise offensive, spearheaded by thousands of Iron Hands that had been on Mars prior to the Heresy and acted upon the Gorgon's orders to prolong the war on Mars until Fulgrim arrived. The initial phase of the Schism of Mars favoured the traitors until the loyal Mechanicum was able to reorganise and counter-attack. Legion reinforcement from both the IV and VII furthered tipped the balance firmly to the loyalists. After the chaos of the first months of the Heresy erupting, things were beginning to stabilise in Sol. Then came the Night of Silent Knives.

The Night of Silent Knives swept through the Sol System, causing severe infrastructural damage as well as vital tactical and strategic information being stolen by the War Commander's spies. The resulting crackdown that followed was directed by the Imperial Fists, with assistance from the reformed Officio Assassinorum, and within days the Sol System was once more secured. Dorn, Horus and Malcador all hoped that the storm had passed until Fulgrim's inevitable arrival, but they were wrong.

 **The Solar War-**

After the chaos of the first year, the Solar War began, lasting five and a half years. This conflict saw the defensive ability of the Seventh Legion tested. Riots, mass protests, sabotage, and uprisings plagued the Sol System. It is estimated that during this time that the VII put down several hundred such events, stamping them out root and stem. Out on the halo of the Sol System, traitor fleets comprised of ramshackle and corrupted starships arrived, their vox systems blaring madness and crewed by demented and mutated humans. These fleets never made it past Pluto and the VII's First Sphere of defence, commanded by First Captain Sigismund. Losses for the Imperium were light, but they were forced to ever be on guard for the next traitor fleet to arrive could be the one led by Fulgrim.

As the traitors drew ever closer to Terra, the War Commander ordered that the Alpha Legion initiate a system-wide surprise attack with the aims of destabilising the Seventh Legion's control of Sol, sabotage defence grids, shipyards, supply depots, and increase fear among the civilian population and force morale to plummet. Fulgrim wanted the system to feel vulnerable in the hope that when he arrived, the situation would be fragile and make the final battle all that much easier for him.

This attack began with Twentieth Legion operators destroying dozens of cargo ships in Terra's orbit, whose holds were full of explosives and volatile materials. The ensuing firestorm set large tracts of several Terran hives afire, killing millions. In the panic that followed, hundreds of military officers and civilian administrators were assassinated by Fulgrim's Oprechnyna, working in tandem with the XX. Uprisings occurred simultaneously on a majority of the moons of Jupiter, Neptune, Uranus, and Saturn.

Hundreds of million died in the first hours of the operation and anarchy ruled the Solar Colonies for several days until Imperial Fist response teams were able to suppress the traitor-supported uprisings. Despite the vulnerability of the Sol System in those few days, no Traitor Legion invasion force arrived to take advantage. Dorn and Horus came to the conclusion that the operation was a ruse for the Alpha Legion to distract the Warmaster and Praetorian to allow them to easily attack Proxima Centauri or Beta-Garmon, where Traitor Legion vox-echoes had been detected. If either world fell, the security of the Throne System would be at risk as both were considered gateway worlds to the Cradle of Mankind.

The Warmaster led his sons on a trajectory to Proxima Centauri while Dorn headed to Beta-Garmon. Traitor spies within Sol communicated to their Alpha Legion the departure of the two primarchs and significant Legion assets, including the flagships of both Legions plus hundreds of Battlefleet Solar escorts and capital war-vessels. Beyond the halo of the Sol System rested a massive battle-group that had lain in wait for many months, having been despatched by Alpharius and Fulgrim to act as a prelude to the main traitor armadas. This Alpha Legion numbered in the hundreds, though many were Imperial Army ships who would act as metal shields for the Legion vessels, and had spiralled through the emptiness of the void between star systems, awaiting the order they knew would come.

 _The bridge of the_ Alpha _was a quiet bustle of activity. Station-officers called out information, serfs carried out orders to and fro, and he observed it all. Sitting on the captain's throne, he was clad in Legion plate, unadorned save the Hydra on his left should pad, and the engraved Hydra on his helm. A long, unusual black spear lay across his lap, its pale blades akin to the colour of freshly poured milk._

 _The bridge doors hissed open and a legionnaire stepped out of the lift. The legionnaire, a certain Astartes by the name of First Captain Ingo Pech, moved passed the Lernaean guards and bowed his head in respect to the seated individual._

 _"All is ready, my lord."_

 _"Excellent. How fares the operation in Sol?"_

 _"As of the latest data-burst: proceeding as expected. The system is in disarray and bleeding from a thousand cuts. Horus and Dorn have taken the bait. Horus to Proxima, Dorn to Beta-Garmon"_

 _His gaze sharpened on the First Captain. "Both of them? Really?"_

 _Pech nodded._

 _"I would expect it of Horus. Proxima is quite loyal to him personally; they almost worship him there, despite the Imperial Truth. To have such a world be attacked and he not be there to defend it would not sit well with my brother's ego and self-image. In his eyes, it was a personal affront to dare attack the system. That is weakness and such weaknesses can be preyed upon. But Rogal… I had not expected that, not with Horus having departed. I thought him far more intelligent, but it seems even the Vigilant makes mistakes."_

 _"Do you think they are preparing something?"_

 _He thought for a moment but dismissed the notion. "No. Traps, misdirection, secrecy, lies," he smiled, "are not honourable in Rogal's mind. He is almost as bad as Roboute in that regard. No, Rogal saw a threat and he went to meet it directly. I wish our agents in VII were close enough to Rogal so I would know how he reacted when he realised that it had been a ruse … well, his stone facade would have cracked in rage, I expect. A rare moment, one that I am sad to miss. Nevertheless," the smile went away, strategies and counter-strategies coming and going through his mind, "double and triple check all variables and contingencies, and update the operation if need be based on the latest data. Use your discretion, Ingo."_

 _"As you will it, so it will be done, Lord Alpharius."_

 _Alpharius watched his First Captain leave the chamber and turned his gaze on the hololith before him, displaying how far out the fleet was from the Kuiper Belt and its projected arrival time, planned to occur soon after legionnaire strike-teams had crippled the Imperials' sensors, blinding them. His head ache and he closed his eyes. He saw himself kneeling before a serpentine throne, accepting a chalice of crimson liquid smelling of copper, and telling the enthroned figure, 'As you command, my lord. Anything for the Legion.'_

 _His eyes snapped open, the image faded and his adopted persona reasserted itself. "Soon, very soon, and then we shall see who is the more formidable, Rogal. Soon, we will see who emerges victorious."_

The Alpha Legion attacked Pluto, both from the newly arrived warships and from agents planted in Pluto's garrison. Sigismund expertly directed the First Sphere's warships, but the Black Knight was heavily outnumbered and caught by surprise by the perpendicular angle of the XX entry into the system's solar plane. Attempts to contact Captain Halbrecht and his Second Sphere based near Jupiter failed, sealing the fate of the First Captain and his brothers to an isolated death. In less than an hour, the Sphere's fleet was halved and traitor legionnaires began landing onto Pluto itself. The planet's missile-laden moons of Charon and Kerberos were under assault and the defenders were faring badly against their more numerous attackers. On the moon Hydra, Alpharius teleported inside the moon, linking up with hidden Space Marine squads that disabled the moon's shielding, and began an assault that originated from within. Alpharius and his strike team quickly secured the small moon, silencing its Astropaths and cutting off communication with Terra. If Pluto and its moons fell, then the Sol System would have lost its outermost outpost and the heavy weapons emplaced on them could be turned against any Imperial counter-attack which would arrive far too late and suffer heavy casualties as a result. The Alpha Legion had almost won the day when they were attacked suddenly from behind.

Two large loyalist fleets, one led by Horus' _Vengeful Spirit_ and the other by Dorn's _Phalanx_ , arrived undetected into the enemy rear-guard, having slingshot around various gravity wells within Sol and arrived to Pluto on low-power. The Warmaster and Praetorian's warships tore into the surprised Alpha Legion, destroying dozens in the opening salvoes. The XX ships were blocked off from any nearby Mandeville points and were forced in-system… only to be met by Halbrecht's Second Sphere squadrons. Halbrecht had regretfully ignored Sigismund's call for aid as he had been under secret orders of his primarch to move his battle-group without notifying anyone else and to maintain vox-silence until he received a signal from the Praetorian, which he promptly did when the _Phalanx_ fired its first wave of torpedoes. Pinned between the loyalist pincers, the Alpha Legion warships were being destroyed in quick fashion.

On the surface of Hydra, Dorn landed with his Huscarls, intent on hunting down his brother. He quickly found Alpharius in the Astropaths' chamber and the two primarchs fought, while their bodyguards tore into one another. Alpharius was a primarch, an Emperor-crafted demigod, and whose name was whispered in fear across the Imperium and feat of arms was supposedly legendary, but he nothing when compared to the cold fury and martial discipline of Rogal Dorn. The Praetorian and the Lord of Serpents fought briefly, both taking wounds, until Dorn was able to get inside Alpharius' guard, cut off his hands with the Praetorian Sword and then impale the Last Primarch through the chest.

The Battle of Pluto ended in an Imperial victory. A large traitor fleet had been almost entirely destroyed, the First Sphere remained intact, and a Traitor Primarch had been killed. Horus and Dorn launched an intensive system-wide investigation and purge of suspected Alpha Legion and Oprechnyna operatives that made the cleansing that followed the Night of Silent Knives look minor in comparison. As an added precaution, all legionnaires under their command were subject to gene-testing to ensure there were no more XX Astartes hiding in the ranks. The Solar War was over.

 _The room was cooled to a chill, sterilised, with four occupants in it. Three were standing and one lay motionless on a slab reeking of disinfectant._

 _Rogal Dorn, Praetorian of Terra, stood over the naked corpse. He stared at the muscled body, the large sword-wound a ghastly gouge in the centre of a chest covered in miniscule pale puckered scars. Dried blood had been washed away, pieces of ceramite and bone picked out with surgical tweezers._

 _"Leave us," he said to Apothecary Primus Haren Dietz, whom saluted and withdrew, the doors closing behind him with a hissing seal. Dorn folded his arms._

 _"The resemblance is uncanny," remarked Horus. The Warmaster tossed down a folder detailing the corpse's medical information and autopsy onto the metal slab. "Cosmetic surgery, bone structural modifications, and," Horus tapped the documents, "his blood coursing through the pretender's veins."_

 _Dorn nodded. "It is common among the XX, this artificial resemblance to their sire. But this," he gestured towards the body, "is going to the extreme. Alpharius' blood adapted the features even more. Not similar but exact, at least for a short time."_

 _"The sanguine shift should have worn off, then. Captured ship logs had the fleet in deep space for over a year."_

 _"Alpharius must have given several vials of blood to the legionnaire and had him in stasis for much of that journey," commented the Seven Primarch. "Still, I thought it was him. During the battle, I thought it was really him. The movement, the fighting style, the verbal exchange, everything was reminiscent of him."_

 _Horus thumbed his chin. "Our brother's blood gave him memories as well, intuitions."_

 _The two stared at the false Alpharius. Horus leaned over and hefted up the black double-bladed spear and inspected it. "Is it a fake?"_

 _"More like a replicate. Upon glance it appears to be the Pale Spear, but closer inspection shows it was human-created. With the level of attention put into it, Alpharius must have built it."_

 _Horus frowned and put it down. "What did he gain from all this?"_

 _The Praetorian shrugged. "I am not sure. Doubtless, it was a plan within a plan within a plan. It would make sense for Fulgrim to order this attack. It hurt us. Millions dead, our security weakened, production slowed to a crawl, and we both lost many sons."_

 _"He is on our doorstep, but we will recover."_

 _"We will. The purge is cleansing Sol of their agents, the gates will be rebuilt, and the walls will be manned. We will be ready." Dorn turned to his brother. "We will endure."_

Weeks after the conclusion of the Solar War, the rest of the Sons of Horus Legion led by three officers of the Mournival arrived from the frontlines, having been recalled by the Warmaster. On their heels came the Iron Warriors led by Perturabo. Both Legions had fought for years afflicting the War Commander's flanks and slowed his drive to the Throneworld, suffering heavy losses in the process. The IV and XVI had broken off their engagements to rush to Terra as Fulgrim could be stalled no longer and therefore needed to reinforce the Throneworld. The Sons of Horus concentrated themselves on Terra and Luna while Perturabo helped Dorn repair the Spheres and implement the final stages of fortification across Sol. Three Legions now stood ready but many on the Throneworld wondered if it would be enough.

The months that followed were the most peaceful experienced in the Sol System since the beginning of the Heresy. The Loyalist Legions rebuilt what had been damaged during the Solar War, replenishing ammunition stockpiles, repairing armour, weapons and ships, filling in the ranks with newly inducted battle-brothers, but it was not to last. As the seventh year of the civil war continued, the long-range augur arrays on Pluto detected a massive warp-signature: the Arch-Traitor and his hordes had arrived. The calm was over, the storm had come.

 **Siege of Terra-**

For thirty days the Traitor Legions fought through the Five Spheres of defence erected by the Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors. The Second Battle of Pluto ended with the Sons of Fulgrim raising a flag bearing the Chemosian Phoenix over the burning remains of the command centre. One by one the Solar Colonies fell to Betrayer's war machine as billions lost their lives resisting Fulgrim, but they could not stop the tide, only delay it.

Over Mars, once void supremacy was secured, Iron Hand companies deployed to the surface of the Red Planet, relieving the final few Dark Mechanicum Forges that had endured the Schism. Under Ferrus Manus, the Tenth Legion evacuated as much material, weapons and warp-corrupted machines to replenish their forces for the final and most critical phase of the battle: the siege. Luna was lost within days of the War Commander's lackeys landing on it. With Terra's moon secured, the War Commander's forces began to invade the Throneworld itself.

After securing several major spaceports near the Palace, most importantly the Lion's Gate and Eternity Wall Spaceports, the Siege began in earnest. For weeks the Sons of Horus, the Iron Warriors and the Imperial Fists valiantly defended the Imperial Palace against all the traitors threw at them, daemons, Abominable Intelligences and more. Despite their best efforts, the loyalists were slowly being pushed back. The Satumine Gate fell on the twenty-third day and the Ultimate Gate on the fifty-seventh day. Manus' siege guns and summoned daemons assaulted the Eternity Wall endlessly, creating cracks in its nearly-indestructible material.

 _Another traitor fell before his sword. He moved like a contained storm, sweeping and swooping, diving and blocking, parrying and thrusting. Son of Fulgrim, Word Bearer, Thousand Son and more were slain by his sword. Not just legionnaire, but battle-robot, Dark Mechanicum Skitarii, and daemons._

 _"First Captain, behind you," yelled one of his Templars._

 _Sigismund turned, blade ready. A Black Legion Astartes, his body leaking toxic green-black ooze from gaps in the armoured plates rushed him, yelling madness through his helmet's speaker grille. A Templar attempted to intercept the monstrosity of a Space Marine but was cut down from behind by a Night Lord._

 _"I am His Champion. Emperor, be with me now. Give my arm strength and shield me with Your righteousness," he muttered, tightening the chains around his wrists that tied his sword to him. The plague-spewing traitor swung with a flickering lightning claw, easily deflected by Sigismund and he stepped within the arms-reach, sliding the sword down the arm of the traitor, twisting and pierced the legionnaire through the stomach as he twisted about. Sludgy, black-yellow blood burst from the wound, staining the stone beneath it. The legionnaire fell to his knees, putrid innards and life's blood emptying itself on the floor of the Imperial Palace._

 _The traitor began to rise, surprising Sigismund with his resilience but the Seventh Legion's First Captain made one strong swing with his blade, cutting off both legs from underneath it. The legionnaire fell to the ground. The corrupted former Death Guard was twisting on the floor, still declaring madness from a ruined throat. Sigismund pulled an incendiary grenade from his belt, activated it and tossed it onto the Black Legion traitor. Sigismund did not expect screaming but he did expect a roar of defiance or anger. Nothing. The traitor slumped to the ground, burning, his flesh and blood leaving a thick rank smell. Even through his helmet's filters, it made Sigismund gag._

 _Stepping away, he killed two Iron Hands who were teaming up on a wounded Templar. The legionnaire nodded his thanks and returned to the fierce melee that dominated an outlying corridor that led to the Inner Palace. The three Loyalist Legions were pulling back in increments but needed companies to stall the traitors until the majority of the loyal Astartes had pulled back to the next defensive bulwark. Sigismund and his company had accompanied every stalling unit, as had Rann and his assault cadre. Each battle cost them soldiers, but each bought time and was deemed worthwhile._

 _Sigismund pivoted from a World Eater's chainaxe, reversing his sword and impaling the XII legionnaire from behind. A Son of Fulgrim rushed him, a sergeant's chevrons on display. The Chemosian was skilled, as were many of Fulgrim's brood. The stance, the quick parry, the feints all spoke of one who had survived countless duels. He lasted less half fifteen seconds against the Emperor's Champion._

 _Flicking his blade to eject most of the gore off, he saw several squads of World Eaters emerge from a rubble-strewed corridor and join the fight, tipping the scales in the rebels' favour. Sigismund nearly ordered the retreat but saw a captain in blue and white battle-plate, bearing the tall helm horns some in the Traitor Legions now wore. The Astartes hefted a heavy chainaxe more fit for a primarch than a Space Marine, dwarfing in size and power the more common form that littered the ground and hefted by Astartes from both sides. But it was not these minor details that informed Sigismund of who it was that strode towards him._

 _No, it was the calm gait, as if the battle raging all around was of no consequence. That movement and the chains wrapped around the walker's wrists, a small black cross dangling from them, told Sigismund exactly who approached him._

 _"Sigismund," came the voice, guttural and scarred by war without end, "it has been a long time."_

 _Sigismund brought his blade before him, seeing his yellow and black reflection in its mirrored surface. He had fought for days without stopping, and in all that time he had felt little weary. But as the Space Marine captain approached him, he felt the loss and weight of the last couple of months. He would fight his cousin, his close comrade, but he did not know if he would emerge alive. But he could not back down for he was the Emperor's Champion and His chosen warrior never shirked from duty._

 _"It has, Khârn." He took a defensive stance; his power sword's active power field emitting an ozone aroma, flooding the filters. "Care to duel?"_

 _Khârn's chainaxe whirred in answer._

As hope began to fade and losses mounted, the Raven Guard arrived. Corax and his veteran companies circumvented the traitor lines and entered the Inner Palace, reinforcing the beleaguered loyalists within. The rest of the XIX spread out across Terra, hampering the War Commander's ability to maintain the siege. With the flux of Raven Guard bolstering the defence, the siege continued to drag onwards.

Despite the Nineteenth Legion's timely arrival, the traitors still outnumbered the loyalists by a considerably large margin. Under the Gorgon's direction the cracks in the Eternity Wall were made larger and eventually a large crevice now led into the Inner Palace. The traitors stormed this opening but were met by Horus Lupercal, Perturabo and Corvus Corax, their sons and thousands of Imperial Fists. The three primarchs held off the assault, Horus having banished the Bloodthirster Ka'bandha, until the crevice was bulldozed shut.

Dorn, commanding the planet's defence from the Throne Room, was pleased. It would take a week, minimum, until the traitors could break through again. As the siege slogged onwards, Dorn knew that the Loyal Legions were doubtlessly inbound but he had no idea when they would arrive and was determined to resist as long as possible. As the ninety-fifth day of the Siege began, the Inner Palace's shielding catastrophically failed. Klaxons wailed and panicked reports flooded to the Praetorian: Fulgrim had teleported with a strikeforce deep in the Palace and was making his way to the Throne Room.

 _He unsheathed the Praetorian Sword, motioning for his Huscarls to follow. The Throne Room's doors opened. Three hundred Custodians stood ready outside. Captain-General Constantin Valdor saluted him._

 _"Shouldn't you be by His side?" Dorn inquired, flexing his grip on the Sword's handle._

 _Valdor checked his Guardian-Spear. "The Emperor concluded if we bought beside you, then none could pass us to get to the Sanctum Imperialis. Therefore, we are protecting Him. That is, if you would have us, my lord."_

 _Dorn grunted. "You know the answer to that, Constantin." Valdor tilted his head in response, a grim, knowing smile on his weathered features._

 _Gunfire and explosions erupted from down the corridor. Over the vox, combat-reports and clipped orders passed back and forth. Dorn unclasped his crimson cloak, letting it fall to the floor as it would only get in the way. The barred gate down the hall blew off its hinges. Spilling from the melta-made hole were hundreds of purple and gold clad Astartes, many of them with the power spears and purple cloaks of the Phoenix Guard, a poor copy of the gold and red Custodians they imitated._

 _Fulgrim was at their head, his artificer armour covered in the gore of Throne-loyal legionnaires. The War Commander raised_ Fireblade _in mocking salute, "Brother!"_

 _Dorn readied his blade, his sons interlocking their Vigil-pattern Storm Shields and aiming their bolters. No speeches, no battle-prep, only duty. "Imperial Fists, protect the Throne Room, kill the enemy. For the Emperor!"_

 _The annex erupted in bolt-fire and electric-hum of power weapons._

Imperial Fist Huscarls and the Emperor's Custodians fought Fulgrim's strikeforce, while the Praetorian fought the Phoenician. In their duel, Fulgrim attempted to sway Dorn to the temptations and power of Chaos, but the Unyielding One never once flinched from his deep loyalty to his father. Dorn was a military genius and a strong fighter but against a Chaos-empowered Fulgrim he was simply outmatched. Dorn was able to wound the Arch-Traitor but in the process was killed by Fireblade. Rogal Dorn, the Vigilant, the Stoic Son, Praetorian of Terra, died defending the gates that led to the Sanctum Imperialis.

Immediately afterwards, the Emperor emerged from His Throne Room and fought the Arch-Betrayer, killing him after a fierce titanic duel, but mortally wounded as a result. The shell-shocked Sons of Fulgrim teleported their father's body back to the Pride of Chemos and the Third Legion evacuated Terra, ensuring the other Traitor Legions experienced a bloodied retreat amidst mass confusion. The other three primarchs arrived and were horrified by Dorn's death and the Emperor's entombment, but none felt the Praetorian's loss as keenly as Perturabo. The Siege had been won, and in turn the Heresy as a whole, but all knew much had been forever lost.

 **Post-Heresy-**

As the Traitor Legions fled from Terra, the Imperium marshalled its forces for its great counter-attack. The Year of Intermission saw the Loyalist Primarchs and their Legions reorganise and concentrate their amassed forces in Sol. Each of the nine primarchs visited their father in the Throne Room, and all visited the resting place of Rogal Dorn, the first to lay in the Tomb of Primarchs on Terra.

 _The bells rung heavily, the sound clamouring and echoing through all of Terra as the planet's entire citizenry mourned Rogal Dorn, the Emperor's First Praetorian. The Vigilant's casket sported the Aquila on its flanks but the black fist of the VII was emblazoned on the centre._

 _Carrying the fallen primarch were his brothers. Horus, Vulkan, Guilliman and Sanguinius carried the casket with ease, but their features were saddened. The common man would not see it, but Archamus knew they wept for their brother on the inside. Trailing behind them was Leman Russ, clothed in the finest wolf pelts and repaired battle-plate; Lion El'Jonson in his black armour, long blond hair carefully combed and hand gripping the pommel of the Lion Sword; Mortarion using his manreaper Perseverance almost like a walking cane, wisps of Barbarus-tainted air leaked outwards from his rebreather mask; Corvus Corax seemingly glided across the ceramite highway, the robe covering his armour made of carefully plucked raven feathers. Behind the primarchs marched ten thousand chosen Imperial Fists, where Archamus and other officers of the VII solemnly marched. Following them were a thousand legionnaires from each of the other nine Legions, and then hundreds of thousands of Army ground troopers and naval crewmen. Overhead flew squadron after squadron of fighters, each having one of its ten fighters pull up and away, signalling the loss Mankind suffered._

 _Watching with tear-laden eyes and wearing the black of mourning were millions and millions of Terrans. Grown men cried unashamedly, their wives and children adding to the cacophony of shock and sadness. Dorn had been the first primarch to die in the Heresy, and the only loyal one at that, and it still came as a blow to the masses. To lose such a being was to show that even demigods could die and the Emperor being entombed on the Golden Throne showed even god-like figures could bleed. The universe no longer made sense that it once had. There was doubt for the future, and rightfully so. Most of Terra had been damaged in some way during the Siege and repairs had only begun, mainly with clearing the countless tonnes of rubble and piles of corpses._

 _At the head of it all was Perturabo, recently elevated to the vacant office of Praetorian. The Second Praetorian strode like an unbreakable force of nature, Praetorian Sword held high in leading the procession to the Tomb of Primarchs, designed by the Iron King. The procession had begun at the shattered remnants of the Satumine Gate and walked for over six hours towards the Tomb, deep inside the Palace._

 _Archamus felt the guilt weigh upon him as he marched along his brethren. He was the Master of the Huscarls, commander of Dorn's bodyguard, and he failed! Why was it that his father died, and yet he lived? He wished he had died during the Siege because then he would not have to keep feeling the hole left by his primarch's passing._

 _The procession reached the Tomb, the marbled steps leading up to a columned annex open to the environment. The column that reached far into the horizon was stopped and only the primarchs and Seventh Legion officers walked those steps. The rest would follow but they would be the first. A dais was there and the casket was laid down. It was closed, for mortal men should never have to see a primarch in such a state. All the other progeny of the Emperor had paid their personal respect previously in private; this was merely a ceremonial formality. As the casket was set down, the primarchs moving behind it to face the entryway, Archamus felt compelled to move to stand beside his primogenitor. He and the six other remaining Huscarls moved to stand by it. The Lion frowned his displeasure at them, but Perturabo nodded, seeing their intent._

 _A moment of respectful silence followed. The Iron Praetorian set his hand atop the casket, bowed his head for a moment, and then raised it. "Let them in," he commanded. The order was transmitted to those outside and so began the arrival of those who wished to pay their respect to the one was favourably remembered as the noblest of them all._

 _As the first wave of Imperial Fist battle-brothers mounted the steps, Archamus found he had a duty still. Dorn may have died, but his body would need to be guarded. It was his way of atonement and to admit to all who saw him that he would never leave his father's side. The seven Huscarls, the last of their order, stood guard over the primarch, then, now and always._

When the Great Scouring began, the Seventh Legion acted as a strategic reserve for Imperium, reinforcing vulnerable flanks and weakened outposts. This does not imply the VII was side-lined, far from it, as chronicles note that hundreds of battles were fought by the Imperial Fists during the Scouring, ranging from minor skirmishes in backwater star systems to the large offensive drives that pushed against the Syndicate Chaotica's grip on traitor-held domains. Notable actions were the Exterminatus of Chemos and Chogoris, among a host of countless others.

After the Scouring's completion, the Seventh Legion broke up into six Chapters according to the tenants of the Codex Astartes, though the Black Templars, founded by former First Captain Sigismund, were notably anti-Codex and walked the line of approval and censure for many years. In the ensuing centuries, the Imperial Fists and the Successors helped construct and garrison the initial wave of Iron Cage Fortress Worlds alongside their favoured cousins the Iron Warriors and their offspring.

In the eighth century of M31, the First Vengeance Crusade was launched by War Commander Tyberius Sakaeron. The Vengeance Crusade pummelled against the Iron Cage surrounding the Eye of Terror, searching for weak spots and openings, of which there were few. In those found and exploited by the Chaos Space Marines, the Chapters manning the Cage denied the Archenemy a foothold into the Imperium proper. As the War Commander's gambit began to run out of momentum, Sakaeron ended it, making the Crusade an effectual draw as neither was able to secure many critical or strategic victories. Both sides had used the First Vengeance Crusade as a testing ground, and methods tried in the First would be repeated and performed to more efficient effect millennia later.

Despite the Imperium's weathering of the Vengeance Crusade, dire news reached the Astartes of the Imperial Fists: Praetorian Perturabo was dead, killed by the Daemon-Primarch Ferrus Manus on Olympia in the Second Iron War. As the shockwave of another Loyal Primarch having died spread through the Imperium like wildfire, the Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists met in council and agreed that the protectorship of the Throne System should fall to none other than themselves. With the support of the surviving primarchs, particularly the Lion, Saguinius and Horus, the High Lords of Terra agreed that the continued protection of the Sol System should fall to the gene-lines of the two Praetorian Primarchs. Since that time, the two bloodlines have defended and monitored the Sol System, with Chapters serving a century-long term of service that alternated between the two gene-lines.

This chain went unbroken until the chaotic Reign of Blood, having weathering through great disasters such as the War of the Beast, the Beheading, the five decade long Nova Terra Interregnum, the Cataclysm, and the slow and steady disappearance of the remaining primarchs. A system that endured for over four thousand years now became unravelled by a single man's desire for power. Master of the Administratum and Ecclesiarch of the Imperial Creed Goge Vandire controlled and manipulated the High Lords to use their veto for the first and only time against the Praetorian Council's newest elected Praetorian Chapter: the Emperor's Warbringers. This prevented the Warbringers from taking up their duty in Sol and relations between the Adeptus Astartes and the Imperial government became strained. This was at the height of Vandire's power and the tyrant could not yet be punished as the current political situation in the Imperium was tenuous at best and the Sixth Vengeance Crusade, often called the Hundred Years' Crusade, was in its final stages and naturally was the focus of the Space Marine Chapters.

Vandire's reign was not to last forever though. After Sakaeron's hordes had been pushed back to the Eye and the border secured once more, Vandire became increasingly power hungry and insane. Entire sectors now swore loyalty to Vandire that superseded the Emperor, the Ecclesiarchy was beginning to split at the seams with the Imperium's heartland supporting the Ecclesiarch out of blind faith while most other star systems only gave lip service to Vandire to avoid being the target of a holy crusade, and civil war on the scale of the Heresy seemed inevitable.

Fortunately for the Imperium, on the world of Dimmamar, a charismatic and Emperor-loyalist named Sebastian Thor began to decry Vandire's tyranny. Trillions flocked to him and within a few years Thor had assembled a massive force of the Imperial Navy, Guard and other auxiliary units. Vandire despatched a Frateris Templar armada that was subsequently lost with all hands in what quickly became known as the Storm of the Emperor's Wrath. Intent on deposing Vandire and seemingly blessed by the Emperor, the Adeptus Astartes began to pledge their support to Thor. Months later, the Terran Crusade began in which saw the Ecclesiarchal Palace besieged by Astartes spearheaded by the Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors. The siege lasted only days, as the Frateris Templar and Militia were all that stood in the way between the Throne-loyalists and Vandire's lackeys. Fighting side by side the Space Marines were the all-female organisation known as the Daughters of the Emperor. The Daughters originated from the world of San Leor and Vandire attempted to sway them to his side, but the Daughters refused, seeing through the corrupt High Lord's lies and manipulations. Vandire later returned to the world only to find its chapels and abbeys empty, the Daughters having evacuated since they knew they were now targets and enemies of the Ecclesiarch. The Daughters eventually found themselves on Dimmamar and swore their allegiance to Sebastian Thor, seeing the Emperor's Holy Light within him. Thus, Thor had a highly trained, well-equipped and fervently loyal religious bodyguard.

After the final barricades were destroyed, Thor deposed Vandire before the High Lords and brought him to trial before the divine half-corpse of the Emperor Himself. None speak of what happened, but when the assembled commanders of the Space Marine Chapters, the leaders of the Daughters, and Thor emerged from the private audience of the Master of Mankind, Vandire was nowhere to be seen, supposedly executed in front of the Emperor as a form of divine wrath by the Adeptus Custodes. With the Reign of Blood ended, the Emperor's Warbringers began their century-long protectorship and the cycle continued once again, having remained unbroken since that time. Many reforms were passed under Thor, notably that a High Lord of Terra could not hold multiple offices as Vandire had and the establishment of the Holy Synod on Ophelia VII, as well as the disbandment of the Frateris Templar and Militia, replacing them with the Adepta Sororitas who would act as internal caretakers of the Imperial Faith and root out Church corruption wherever they found it.

Now it is the 41st Millennium and the Imperium knows only war. Beset on all sides by a myriad of xenos, heretics and daemons, the Imperium struggles to endure. The quarantine of the Tyranids, the strategic isolation and containment of the Necrons, the opening clashes with several Ork empires, the hunting down of Dark Eldar slaving-raid fleets, the garrisoning of border zones between the Imperium and various xenos species, such as the Tau, have rapidly drained much of the Imperial war machine and its vast reserves. And with the Eleventh Vengeance Crusade soon to begin, the Imperium finds itself in a predicament not seen since the Heresy ten thousand years ago.

In spite of the dire situation, the Imperial Fists remain as vigilant as they were during the Great Crusade's early years. All sons of Dorn know the violent storm that is approaching and none flinch from it, instead they ready themselves to defend the Emperor's Realm in its darkest hour.

 **Organisation-**

Unlike the Chapters, companies or battalions of a majority of the other Legiones Astartes, Imperial Fist companies generally numbered no more than two hundred legionnaires, and not uncommonly were smaller than this. This smaller-sized company formation allowed for the easy dissemination of the VII across the Imperium, helping move along the rapid conquest of the galaxy, and during the Heresy having scores of vital worlds be garrisoned and protected by the sons of Dorn, acting as thorns in the Arch-Betrayer's side.

Following the Fulgrimian Heresy and the Great Scouring, the Imperial Fists adopted the Codex Astartes without qualm, though the Black Templars and its descendants would only give the most minimal of lip service to Guilliman's magnum opus, especially in terms of Codex-allotted manpower. The Imperial Fists, though, are considered Codex-compliant Chapters and field ten companies of five hundred Space Marines each.

A unit of note that no longer exists are the Huscarls of Dorn. Once the legendary bodyguards of the Seventh Primarch, the survivors of this unit were very few in number after the Heresy and swore an eternal oath to guard their primogenitor's corpse until death. This lasted several centuries until one by one they began to die off or disappear, usually without a trace. Since the Praetorian System was put into place, whichever Chapter became the new defenders of Terra would always have an honour squad guarding the entrance to the Tomb of Primarchs, forever respectfully honouring and to provide an actual bodyguard as the Tomb is considered a holy site by the Imperial Cult and many religious fanatics attempt to storm the building to get a glimpse of the stasis-locked caskets that house several primarchs or items that belonged to them.

A persistent rumour in the Terran underground is that one Huscarl remains, who protects from the shadows and eliminates threats, usually Chaos agents or witch cults, before they can even become a threat to the current day-to-day Tomb honour guard. The Inquisition and several Praetorian Chapters have investigated the matter but have yet to find any solid proof that such an Astartes exists. Nonetheless, the title of said Space Marine, whispered to be called the Praetorian of Dorn, is mumbled fearfully by the Throneworld's criminal underworld.

 **Recruitment-**

The Imperial Fists have two official primary recruitment worlds: Inwit and Terra, though many Fists, both past and present, have been recruited across the galaxy, selected by their force of will and strong character. Despite having two homeworlds, the Imperial Fists are organised primarily as a fleet-based Chapter, with every battle-barge having the knowledge and equipment necessary to turn untested Aspirants into ready-to-deploy battle-brothers. It is estimated that three-quarters of the Chapter at any time are recruited from worlds not Terra or Inwit.

The Imperial Fists unique philosophy on which young boys they recruit and why is best explained by Rogal Dorn when he commented in his first years of commanding the VII, "I want recruits, not vassals." This means that every legionnaire, and later battle-brother of the Chapter, are first asked to join voluntarily, with the trials and hardships the Aspirants will face clearly laid out and explained to them. Those that say no are forever blacklisted and never to be recruited, but those that say yes, knowing what awaits them, are treated with respect and begin the process of becoming a Space Marine.

 **Homeworld-**

The homeworld of the Imperial Fists Chapter is in reality two worlds, that of Inwit and Terra. Despite Dorn being raised and coming to power on Inwit, the Seventh Primarch considered Terra his true home and that attitude was passed down onto his sons. Though they have two worlds to call home, the Chapter remains a fleet-based Chapter in practice, only visiting each world every few decades to replace losses or have maintenance and repairs performed on their warships.

Even during the Great Crusade and Heresy, the Imperial Fists were fleet-based, and as such sported the largest Legiones Astartes fleet, despite their numbers never exceeding one hundred and five thousand at their height prior to the Dropsite Massacre. The modern-day Imperial Fists still field one of the largest war-fleets out of all the Astartes Chapters in the Imperium, still led by the Phalanx.

 **Beliefs-**

Unlike a majority of his brothers, such as Lorgar, Guilliman or Perturabo, the Imperial Fists largely eschewed creating a mini-empire within the Imperium, not including the Inwit Cluster. While they garrisoned countless worlds, this was seen as temporary, and on the few where they have remained on as permanent defenders they rarely rule the planet directly, instead working hand-in-hand with the local planetary government.

 **Gene-seed-**

The gene-seed of the Imperial Fists is stable and pure, though it lacks the Sus-an Membrane and the Belcher's Gland. These two organs either disappeared before Dorn's discovery or were never included in the genetic legacy of the Seventh Primarch; historical records are sparse on this subject. Another matter, seemingly interweaved with the sons of Dorn, is the focus of attaining discipline through pain, therefore conquering it. This obsession was begun by Dorn using the original Pain Glove during the latter years of the Great Crusade and henceforth until his death. Subsequently, many Astartes of the Vigilant's lineage partake in using a Pain Glove to focus their mind and to overcome the pain, showing themselves to be its masters, not its servants.

 **Battlecry-**

Common battle-cries are, "In the Primarch's memory!" and "To the glory of Dorn and the Emperor!" but the most used is, naturally, "For the Emperor!"


	21. The Death of Innocence

**The Death of Innocence**

It was galling to wait. He had been waiting for seven minutes and forty-three point two seconds, but to a being as heavily augmetic enhanced as he, it felt akin to eternity. The antechamber he stood motionless in was large, filled with artefacts dating back to the Dark Age of Technology. Engine parts, old weapons and now forbidden designs were encased in void-sealed plexiglass containers. Everywhere the cog of the Machine Cult dotted the red and gold walls. It appeared at first glance to be decoration, but he knew that they were far more. Many had vox jammers, teleport scramblers, and heavy stubber turrets within, ready to activate and deploy. Lining the walls were two squads of Skitarii Protectors, their red robes and bronze masks hiding a heavily muscled and augmented physique, enhanced to bring death in defence of their ward. Guarding the two doors that led out of the antechamber were hulking Praetorian Servitors, their legs were gone, removed to allow the installing of armoured tracks that could bear their immense weight.

Though he was a high-ranking Adept within the Mechanicum, and a close ally to the Fabricator-General, the bodyguards to the Magos Mechanicus treated all who entered the Fabricator-General's Spire with suspect. Rightfully so, he thought. The situation on Mars had grown increasingly tense these past few years. Originally, there had been two principal camps of thought within the Mechanicum: the conservatives and the moderates. Long had these two factions fought one another, usually in council, doctrine, logic, assassination, and, on occasion, through open warfare. The conservatives meant to retain the isolationist policy of their forbearers, restrict the refinement of technology to focus rather on the religious aspect of the Cult, and to come to better understanding of the Omnissiah through replicating and venerating the technologies of old. The moderates, instead, foolishly insisted on technological refinement and interacting diplomatically with Terra, where techno-wars and genocides raged uncontrollably. Such a view became widely unpopular with the old Martian elite, as it threatened their millennia-old ideologies and powerbases, but swept through and took hold in the lower-ranked masses. For over a century the two sides had been in a peaceful stalemate, with the old elite retaining leadership and direction of the Priesthood, but coming under increasing pressure from the moderates. As Terra united under one rule, the moderates popularity and power increased, causing tensions to flare. Civil war seemed inevitable.

Then He arrived.

When the Emperor, the self-styled Master of Mankind, landed on Mars to bind the Red Planet to His newborn Imperium, the seemingly inevitable civil war was all but forgotten. The moderates and a surprisingly amount of traditionalists flocked to the double-eagle banner. From the first day He had set foot on the holy soil of Mars, the Emperor had been called by many to be the Machine God Incarnate, the Flesh Omnissiah. His supporters quickly became known as the Imperial faction. A large majority of the moderates, with considerable conservative strength bolstering their ranks, formed this faction, while the more sceptical moderates joined with the remaining conservatives to form the traditionalist bloc. These were not the only blocs, but by far the largest and most influential on Mars.

Both factions supported the Imperium, at least initially, as the expansion of the Imperium also meant the rediscovery of Forge Worlds and the acquisitions of STCs and other lost relics. But as the Imperial bloc gained more and more power, the relations on Mars once again became fragile.

Through political manoeuvring and influence, the traditionalists had inherited the conservatives' dominance in the upper hierarchy of the Mechanicum, with the leader of the traditionalists holding the office and title of the Fabricator-General for near two centuries. But with the Great Crusade nearing a victorious end, the fate of the Cult was unknown...

It could be hypothesised however: total domination by the Imperium, with the Imperial faction acting as His willing puppets. And he would not let that happen. He once had allies among the upper crust of the Mechanicum. But that seemed to be changing…

+Adept Chrom,+ canted a servitor, +the Fabricator-General will see you now.+

Lukas Chrom, Adept of Mondus Gamma Forge, clicked his mechadendrites in acknowledgement and followed the servitor. He could have messaged me himself from his office, but this was a show of power. Not a good sign.

Chrom exited the antechamber, walking down a brief hallway lined with more Praetorian Servitors, their ocular lenses following him, as were their weapon turrets. The door hissed open at their approach, the servitor moving to the side, allowing Chrom to enter alone. The office was relatively bland, with almost no ornamentation. Only a thick plexiglass wall-window impressed outsiders as it showed the breadth of Olympus Mons. Adept moved to stand before the immaculate glass and metal desk and tilted his head towards the seated figure, making the cog with his augmetic hands. Already standing before the seated figure was two of the most powerful Adepts on the entire planet: Urtzi Malevolus and Melgator. Chrom inserted himself in between them.

+Fabricator-General, thank you for seeing me.+

Kelbor-Hal, Fabricator-General of Mars, and by default the leader of the entire Cult Mechanicum, looked up at Chrom. Kelbor-Hal's face had long ago been replaced with extensive modifications, as had Chrom's, and the leader of the Martian Priesthood stared at the Adept with unblinking green tri-ocular bionic lenses. The two other Adepts shuffled to make room.

+Why are you here, Chrom?+

+I have brought a matter of great import.+

+Could this not have been done via vox?+

+No, my lord, this is a… sensitive matter.+

Kelbor-Hal's lenses whirred as they focused.

+Explain.+

+The harvest comes.+

A second long pause, stretching longer for them than it would for unaugmented humans.

+Who leads this harvest?+

+Fulgrim.+

+And how many answer his call?+

+Several Legions.+

+Name them.+

Chrom did so, naming those Legions that would follow the Phoenician into rebellion unflinchingly. Only five had been confirmed as of yet: the Night Lords, White Scars, Word Bearers, Iron Hands and Emperor's Children, but others were being quietly approached. Kelbor-Hal was still, calculating. The phrase, long planned between the Seventeenth Legion and Kelbor-Hal decades ago, meant the plan to overthrow the Emperor was nearing fruition. It was to be given prior to the outbreak of hostilities for the traditionalist faction to organise and rally its forces for the war that would rage across Mars.

Chrom waited for his master to respond, to hear that the true Martian Mechanicum would honour its obligations and ready itself for the war that would sweep across the Red Planet. It was a simple acknowledgement, but Kelbor-Hal sat there, unmoving.

Three seconds passed since Chrom had asked, a time for such a modified mind as the Fabricator-General to have interpreted, dissected, analysed potential scenarios and respond. But there was nothing.

+My lord?+

+Tell the Seventeenth Legion representative that the Mechanicum will not join their struggle.+

Chrom stood shocked. Kelbor-Hal would not initiate the schism necessary to purge the Priesthood of the Emperor's lackeys. Heresy of the highest order!

+My lord, why?+ His cant carried with it a sense of urgency and… not anger as he was above such wasteful emotions, but something approximate to that.

+The Third Primarch is skilled and cunning, but he has no chance to overthrow the Emperor.+

+My lord, you swore to Lorgar Aurelian that you would assist him and be the bearer of Mars' freedom from Terra's dictatorship!+

+I swore to the Seventeenth Primarch that I would assist him and would orchestrate mass rebellion on Mars, only if the war would favour the rebels and thus the Mechanicum. With the Warmaster, Death Lord, Praetorian and the Emperor all here at the same time, none of which will follow Fulgrim, any rebellion in Sol would be quickly defeated, and that defeat would see the Mechanicum become integrated further into the Imperium. Our autonomy would end, and for what? A short time of defiance? An affirmation of our elder ways? No, it is too much a risk.+

+But you hate the Emperor, you wish to be free of Him, and-+

+You're right,+ canted Kelbor-Hal, +I despise the Omnissiah Pretender, but to act now would destroy our sovereignty over ourselves. If the Third Primarch initially succeeds, then I will re-evaluate our next moves.+

+Joining too late may doom the rebellion,+ Chrom countered.

+And joining too early may spell disaster. I have considered the variables, watched who has come to his side in secret. Five Legions, it isn't enough.+

+Other Legions are being approached! There are forces you haven't accounted for-+

+It no longer matters. Perhaps if Fugrim had half or more of the Legiones Astartes under his command, then I would reconsider, but his chances as of now are too slim to win. His popularity with the Imperial masses and resources is great, but pales compared to the Emperor-loyal primarchs.+

Chrom looked at the other two Adepts. He could not believe they would follow Kelbor-Hal in this

+Malevolus, Melgator, surely you cannot support this? Not after the years we have spent organising it!+

Malevolus spoke first, +I am in complete agreement with the Fabricator-General, Chrom. It is best we remain neutral in the coming conflict. After the initial opening moves, if it appears the Phoenician threatens the Emperor's hold then we will throw our weight behind him. If not, perhaps we can support the Emperor and due to our loyalty receive more freedoms. Kelbor-Hal clicked in agreement.+

Melgator's servos whined as his mechadendrites flicked. +I do not care for that last possibility, but the Fabricator-General and Malevolus have a point. Between us and our allies we could sway half of Mars to the rebel side, but the risk is far too great. To act now would be akin to rashness.+

Kelbor-Hal tapped a mechanical digit. Tap tap. Tap tap. If Chrom were more human, he might have wilted under that cold gaze, but he stood his ground.

+You are not to make any aggressive move as of yet,+ spoke Kelbor-Hal, +We will watch the war from afar and make more informed decisions as the situation develops. Is that understood?+

Chrom knew if he continued to argue, he would find himself deposed and killed, or worse, made into a lobotomised, mindless servitor for a rival's amusement. He bowed.

+Yes, my lord Fabricator-General.+

* * *

Chrom had left, heading back to his forge. Malevolus had departed as well. The loyal Adept's forge was undergoing extensive upgrades and modifications and needed its master there to authorise and supervise. Only Melgator remained. Melgator was troubled by what Kelbor-Hal and Malevolus agreed upon. Even though he had thrown his support behind them, he felt Chrom had the right of it. Strike now, strike hard, and Mars might once again be its own sovereign empire. Better to be the ally of Fulgrim, than the pawns of his father. He would analyse everything later. Perhaps a variable he missed that could change the war had eluded him, eluded them all. When he returned to his forge, he would rethink his strategies. In the meantime, he would act as Kelbor-Hal's loyal underling.

+Lord?+ he queried. The Magos Mechanicus stood at the metre-thick window, watching as Sol began to set below the horizon, bathing the crimson land in solar light the colour of arterial blood. Kelbor-Hal coolly watched, the armoured train carrying the master of Mondus Gamma departing in view.

+Follow Chrom. I want to know where he goes, what he does. We cannot risk war with the Imperium.+

Melgator bowed, treading backwards.

+As you wish, my lord.+

Now to looks at the pieces that lay before him, see how the game of regicide would play out.

* * *

Weeks had passed since his meeting with Kelbor-Hal, and Lukas Chrom had not been idle. He had met with the Word Bearers that had been guests in his forge, acting as ambassadors from their primarch. The legionnaire, a certain Fleet-Captain Zadkiel, was heavily displeased that Kelbor-Hal turned his back on their movement, but Chrom assured him a rebellion would occur on Mars, just not the one they had expected. The Fabricator-General had not informed Dorn, Horus, Malcador or the Emperor of what was simmering beneath the Mechanicum's homeworld's surface, as Kelbor-Hal wanted to put on a display of Martian strength and unity, as well as wishing for the Imperium to be bled dearly in the inevitable civil war. Kelbor-Hal seemed to actually think none on Mars would go against him or his cowardice, that their desire for the true path was somehow weaker than their enforced loyalty to the Fabricator-General. Such arrogance.

Zadkiel, comforted by Chrom's assurances, left for Thule to take command of the warship docked there. To the Adept's surprise, the legionnaires of the XVII had been quickly replaced by thirteen thousand Astartes of the Tenth Legion. Led by Captain Shadrak Meduson, called Warleader by his legionnaires, a title bequeathed to him by Ferrus Manus, the Iron Hands arrived to Mondus Gamma in force. Various reasons were given for there to be so many Iron Hands on Mars at once, namely receiving thousands of the new Mk IV Maximus power armour and to take command of several dozen newly constructed warships. The friendly relationship between the Tenth Legion and the Mechanicum made their stay easily accepted. The ships earmarked for the X had departed, manned by mortal skeleton crews, heading off to reinforce the Gorgon before he made his way to Ultramar in preparation for the crusade he would launch.

The Astartes who were supposed to man and command those vessels stayed, and readied for war. With thirteen thousand Iron Hands to reinforce him, Chrom's military might would now be a considerable thorn in the loyal Mechanicum's side. But not enough, not by far.

That was why he was in the rusting underbelly of a minor industrial hive in the Cydonia Mensae. The region was an oddity on Mars. While every region was in effect a province of the overall government led by the Fabricator-General, Cydonia Mensae was not ruled by Adepts that pledged fealty to Kelbor-Hal, but rather the deadly and brutally effective Sisters of Cydonia. The Sisters were to the Mechanicum what the Officio Assassinorum was to the Imperium, but was not directly controlled or influenced by the respective empire's leaders. The Sisters answered only to their secretive council, giving the most minimal of tithes and services to the Fabricator-General but by long tradition this was accepted. Kelbor-Hal could wipe out the Sisters, but to do so would require immense resources that would suffer heavy losses for a relatively industrially productive poor region. As a result, the Sisters endured.

Reddish-brown water dripped from cracked pipes, rats scuttled in the corner and trash littered the ground in heaps. The water echoed as it fell.

Drip drip drip

Drip drip drip

Drip drip-

+What news from Olympus Mons?+

Chrom turned, seeing one of the 'trash heaps' rise from the ground, revealing a lithe, feminine, but all together dangerous figure. The figure shrugged off the rest of the disguise, black skin tight body armour dotted with knives and two plasma pistols holstered around a black belt.

+Kelbor-Hal turns his back on the Mechanicum. He'd rather be a slave than a rebel.+

The lithe warrior stepped forward, motions smooth and gait steady. She, for the warrior was undoubtedly a woman, came before Chrom. She looked at him, not as a subject to a superior, or a hound to its master, but rather an ally to another, both equal in their own ways.

+Then we proceed with it?+

+Yes,+ Chrom said in lingua technis, +Omega-Three is to be put into effect. Kelbor-Hal must die.+

* * *

Melgator reviewed the video footage. It showed Chrom and the Cydonian assassin talking in a secluded underhive compartment. His skull probe droid had been on low power, and had followed Chrom from afar for days. Designed by him, it was heavily shielded and could remain hidden under even the most extensive scans, barring those that guarded Olympus Mons and the Imperial Palace. The meeting between Chrom and the assassin was incriminating, terribly so. It was enough to see Chrom executed or lobotomised into a mindless servitor. All Melgator had to do was send the video log to the Fabricator-General over a secure network.

But… Chrom had far more allies than Melgator had at first assumed. Word Bearers, then Iron Hands on the Red Planet itself, dozens of Adepts he had not suspected, though admittedly they were minor and wielded very little in the way of military or political power, and the Cydonian Sisterhood. Interesting, very interesting, he thought. He would wait to see how things played out. In the meantime, he would quietly ready his Forge for war, because no matter which side he chose, there would be war.

* * *

Few places in the Imperium had the security of Olympus Mons. With its thick walls, massive ordinance and hordes of Skitarii and a powerful Titan Legion based there, it was the equal of any Space Marine fortress-monastery or the Emperor's palace itself. It was secure and a safe haven on a world increasingly becoming fractured along political and doctrinal lines.

As a result, Kelbor-Hal hated leaving it. Alas, he found himself in a heavily armoured train, many hundreds of kilometres away from the Olympus Mons, making promises and re-establishing alliances with Adepts whose loyalty he found suspect. Across the Red Planet hundreds of minor traditionalist Adepts, usually those far from his powerbase, had begun wavering in their allegiance to his office. It had only worsened when the Cyclops' destructive psychic wave swept across Terra, killing millions and causing great instability amongst the unprotected and spirit-weak flesh masses. The Imperial Fists had begun deploying across Sol to secure trade routes, void stations, sub-orbital plates and more. They had no direct control over the Solar Colonies yet, but his spies within the Palace whispered that it might come to that very soon. Not only were the Seventh Legion in force in Sol, but so too were the Sons of Horus, Iron Warriors, and to a lesser degree, the Death Guard. When Horus arrived to Terra near-death, almost the entirety of the XVI came with him. They waited over the Throneworld for weeks until the Emperor and Mortarion had healed the Warmaster, but they still lay in orbit as their primarch recovered. The Death Guard assisted the Sisters of Silence and Adeptus Arbites in putting down the rapid rise in cults. No matter how many they put down, more seemed to arise, led by maddened psykers and broken-minded charismatic fanatics. The Iron Warriors were a new addition, arriving less than a month ago. The arrival of so many Astartes in such a short amount of time was causing Mars to destabilise with the radicals claiming the Imperial faction was going to undermine Martian autonomy and cede Martian independence to the Emperor in full. The Imperials, both the Mechanicum faction and the real Imperials, denied this but it only fuelled the fire. Trapped in between Chrom's radical faction and Kane's Imperials were Kelbor-Hal's conservative and moderate traditionalists. This base of support was slowly degrading as members of it switched to either Chrom or Kane, weakening Kelbor-Hal's authority by leaps and bounds. As it stood, the conservatives typically joined the radicals, the moderates almost exclusively to the Imperials, if they did not join the growing neutral bloc. He knew that Chrom had made ambitious moves as of late, thanks to Melgator's surveillance, but no outright treason had been discovered. The homeworld of the Cult Mechanicum was merely rebounding from the chaos that was gripping the Imperium. News of the Space Wolves being despatched to Prospero to arrest Magnus disturbed many. More disturbing and far more foreshadowing of what was to come was the Night Lords murderous rampage and the subsequent armada sent after them, commanded by Sanguinius. And events closer to home were causing instability.

On top of Praetorian Dorn's increasing power and authority within Sol, several weeks ago he had received word from his subordinates in the Jovian shipyards that the Furious Abyss super battleship being constructed in Thule had been hijacked by the Word Bearers, the construction yard and all its crew and material destroyed, lost forever. The Furious Abyss then quietly departed Sol, leaving the authorities unaware. That was expected. If the rebels were to hurt the Imperium in any meaningful way, they would need the Abyss and its sisters, as its guns and armour would allow it to take on any opponent and win, superior to even the Gloriana-class battleships that the primarchs commanded. If the war to come could bleed the Imperium dry, then perhaps Mars would become the dominant partner and lead Mankind. If the Imperium decided to track down where the construction had taken place, they could easily find who authorised its construction, but Kelbor-Hal would plead ignorance on the ship's true nature. His excuse of stating that he was merely contracted by Lorgar Aurelian to build three advanced warships, not knowing the Seventeenth Primarch would become traitor was quite reasonable. With several scions of the Emperor becoming rebel warlords, the Imperium would not dare push him on the matter less they look like hypocrites attempting to find a scapegoat. They wouldn't dare attempt it as they needed the Mechanicum to supply them.

His train, the Magos Locomotum, chugged through the Eridania Quadrangle. It ran upon a small ridge, some hundred metres above the plains to either side. It provided an ample view of the security forces of the Fabricator-General. Flying alongside were three dozen Mars-pattern Storm Eagle gunships, with two squadrons of Avenger-class strike fighters flying overhead. On the relative flat plains to either side of the tracks were over two hundred Land Speeders and four Warhound Titans, two on each side. Atop and flanking the sides of the heavily armoured train were flak turrets and SAM launchers. Within was a highly advanced sacred electronic defence system, with a closed and secure communications network. Nothing would get near Kelbor-Hal without his express permission. He would arrive to Olympus Mons after weeks of traversing Mars in less than two hours. Then he would begin preparing the Mechanicum to weather the storm, which seemed to be far more destructive than when Chrom had approached him six weeks ago.

Perhaps he should recall Chrom to Olympus Mons, have him inform the Word Bearers that he was reconsidering his stance on-

The train rocked violently once, then twice, and disengaged from the mag-track, causing a screeching, horrifying sound. Several of his personal Skitarii bodyguards rushed to him without concern for themselves as the train tumbled violently down the ridge, several of the plexiglass windows cracking and breaking apart. Kelbor-Hal's mechadendrites lashed out, biting deep into the train's metal interior, securing his place. One of his assistants fell awkwardly as the train rolled, breaking his neck, killing him. The other was crushed by a Praetorian battle-servitor who had stood guard at the carriage's end. Blood and machine oil spilled from beneath the battle-servitor. Due to its fall and lack of legs and proper arms, it could not push itself up.

The train came to a stop at the bottom of the ridge. Kelbor-Hal heard rapid and responsive queries come from his security forces over the vox. They were rushing to the train, establishing contact with his accompanying bodyguard unit. Five heavily muscled Skitarii moved to upright the Praetorian, grunting in the effort.

+Is the Fabricator-General alive? Is he disabled?+ came the question from the princeps of the nearest Warhound.

Kelbor-Hal went to answer the question himself when the link was cut. He unlatched himself from the interior, dropping to the 'roof' which now acted as the floor. Looking out the windows he saw nine figures running down the ridge, their speed clearly enhanced via extensive augmentations.

+Guards, to the east!+

The Skitarii turned, hellguns raised, but they were too slow for what could only be assassins. Their slim, lithe figures clad in body glove covered in weapons and a unique sigil informed Kelbor-Hal who they were. There was no else who would dare kill him. If the Emperor had ordered his assassination and the Mechanicum found out, there would be even greater political chaos and a planet-wide rebellion. He would not risk that, neither would Malcador nor the Grand Master, but the Cydonian Sisters, they would dare. By Omnissiah, they have come to kill me. Fear kindled deep inside him.

One assailant raised her longlas, firing as she moved. Stabilisers in her arms kept the rifle on target. Three shots fired in quick succession killed three Skitarii, with a det-dagger thrown by another, impaling on the upturned Praetorian. The det-dagger exploded after a millisecond, engulfing the five Skitarii near it in flames. The last two Skitarii that survived in the carriage fired their hellguns, downing one of the assassins, but the other eight entered flawlessly through the shattered windows. Four turned to Kelbor-Hal and his guards, while the other five advanced to delay the reinforcements from other carriages. One assassin was stabbed with a hellgun's bayonet, but the Sister shrugged off the wound, using razor-tipped fingers to cut through the throat of the Skitarii. Kelbor-Hal finished her off with his mechadendrites, two piercing through her facemask into the eyes behind the plastek eye cover and deep into the still flesh brain. Blood and brain matter splattered outwards as he withdrew his mechadendrites, blocking one assassin's thrust with her power sword. The Sister seemed surprised that her powered blade did not cut through Kelbor-Hal's mechadendrites, but his were far more resistant than standard models and had anti-energy dampeners and reflectors, causing the power sword to leave only a scorch mark when it should have cut clean through.

He took advantage of the distraction to pierce her with three of his mechadendrites, but she grasped onto them, one in each hand and clutching the other between her bloodied thighs. Her strength was immense and Kelbor-Hal could not pull them free, no matter how badly they lashed and cut at the Sister. Another stepped forward and rammed a knife into his chest, near his power pack. A quick twist and swipe saw many of his internal power cables become cut, causing him to fall as electric surges pulsated through his body erratically. Machine oil spilled from him in a growing pool. The Sister who stabbed him paused for a moment as she looked down on him, her left green tinted augmetic blinking as if taking a pict, then she leaned downwards and began stabbing his face in quick succession, each pierce of the blade digging deeper past the facial metal mask towards the steel encased brain tissue. He could do nothing as his energy levels fluctuated and plummeted, his power pack damaged and disconnected from the whole. His mechadendrites hung limply at his sides.

Stab.

Stab.

Stab.

In the doorway between carriages he saw a Sister fall, a dozen Skitarii dead at her feet. The other four there continued to hold of the other bodyguards, killing without pause. The Skitarii would not get to him in time. He was going to die. Here, now, of all places. And he had so much planned, so much to do. A future of a Mechanicum-led Imperium would never come to fruition under anyone else. They were either too loyal to the Emperor or too blinded by hatred. They could not see the larger strategy at play. What a waste.

The Sister above him threw her knife to the floor, blunted and nicked into uselessness. She pulled out a plasma pistol, aiming directly at the exposed metal-encased brain. One shot from that would melt through the metal and destroy his brain. Oddly enough, the fear was gone.

She fired and Kelbor-Hal went offline, permanently.

* * *

Chrom watched as the hour long inauguration ceremony ended, proclaiming Zagreus Kane as the new Fabricator-General of Mars, and de facto of the Mechanicum entire. Replacing Kane as Fabricator Locum was Ipluvien Maximal, the obvious and dependable choice as his loyalty and friendship with Kane was well known

Kane and Maximal were both Imperial moderates, securing the Imperials control over the Mechanicum more in one day than the previous two centuries combined. Not only were the two highest ranks occupied by Imperials, but so too were almost all of the positions in the council. Several had resigned, either out of protest to the new Magos Mechanicus, or out of fear. Two members of Kelbor-Hal's council had been assassinated. Explorator Primus Voryn Handar and Adons Casviscius, the Lord of the Temple of All Knowledge. Two of Kelbor-Hal's most loyal followers, killed not long after their master's death. Following that, the Genetor Majoris, the Primarius Logis, and Melgator as Mechanicum Ambassador to Terra, all resigned. For several days, the only upper-tier government the Mechanicum had was Master of Statutes Marcus Arpino, Chief Magos of the Librarium Tehnologica on Terra Magos Ludd, and Kane who acted as Fabricator Locum and interim Fabricator-General. The Mechanicum Parliament also experienced issues, with several vocal Kelbor-Hal followers being assassinated, driving more and more Magi into the Imperial camp as a form of safety, or more worrisome, into the radical traditionalist camp led by himself. This saw nearly three-fifths of the Parliament becoming part of the Imperial bloc, with the rest split between the radical traditionalists or the multitude of minor camps that tried to cling to neutrality in the standoff between the Imperials and the radicals.

Now after days of recruitment, the official coronation had come. Zagreus Kane as Fabricator-General, Ipluvien Maximal as Fabricator Locum, Arkhan Land as Mechanicum Ambassador to Terra, Trimejia Diadanei as Primarius Logis, Manzius Rodriggos as Genetor Majoris, Hamien Chou as Explorator Primus, Sindha Acamahd as Lady of the Temple of All Knowledge, Koriel Zeth as Ambassador to the Collegia Titanica, and Urtzi Malevolus as Inspector-General of the Legiones Astartes. Marcus Arpino and Ludd would remain part of the Fabricator-General's council as Master of Statutes and as Chief Magos of the Librarium Tehnologica on Terra, respectively. Though Adept Melgator had resigned his office, he would act on as advisor to Kane to further ease tensions between the two dominant political blocs.

Kane's administrative council had formed an Imperial majority, with only three traditionalists to appease their colleagues as well as gain their support, with only the Master of Statutes being truly neutral. Those three were Hamien Chou and Manzius Rodriggos, both moderates in the traditionalist bloc, and finally Urtzi Malevolus as the only conservative traditionalist. Despite this, following Kelbor-Hal's murder, he had made himself quite loyal to Kane. Chrom had tried to approach Malevolus but after being rebuffed, he knew that Malevolus now pledged his services fully to the Emperor. Traitor.

Chrom thought of Kelbor-Hal's assassination and if he had lips he would smile. Kelbor-Hal had been targeted and eliminated by the Sisters of Cydonia on his return voyage to Olympus Mons. They had derailed his train, killed the Fabricator-General, sending the visual and vocal confirmation to one of Chrom's subordinates, then activated the micro-atomic bomb they carried with them, incinerating the train and all its evidence, as well as destroying most of the security detail, killing thousands, with the closest Warhound Titan to the armoured train having been destroyed.

As surprise and shock reigned across Mars, Chrom quietly distributed rumours that the assassination had been carried out by the Officio Assassinorum under the Emperor's orders, who used the atomic warhead to erase their tracks. Though most, not all of whom were Imperials, scoffed at the idea, some listened. The traditionalist front was falling apart with many having switched sides to the Imperial bloc as they saw its ascendancy, with some joining the minor neutral blocs, and within the traditionalist camp several new sub-factions emerged, such as Chrom's radical faction. It attracted only the most extreme traditionalists, a vast majority of conservatives with only a scattering of moderates. At most, he influenced only a quarter of the Martian Priesthood to any considerable degree, with many of the more powerful Adepts within the Mechanicum loyal to the new Fabricator-General.

Logically, by the numbers alone, any resistance would be crushed. But he had something the loyalists did not know about: thirteen thousand legionnaires. And he had allies within Kane's government; allies who would help balance the scales; allies who would bring more to the fold.

War was coming, and soon. Sanguinius had sent several astropathic messages to Terra, with the last informing them that Curze had been cornered on an out of the way, backwater world called Bellanor IV in the Segmentum Tempestus. While the Imperium thought it would be a glorious victory in removing a shameful and dark Legion, they had no inkling that Bellanor IV would be the first battle in a much larger war to follow. It was to be a catalyst to the approaching storm.

Soon, the Mechanicum would face a reckoning unseen in millennia. And, thought Chrom, it would glorious.

* * *

+Cargo train C43-D11, you are authorised to proceed. Advance to Rail Station Beta-5.+

Tech-priest Daius Monbet updated his cogitator in the small, cramped office. His still human fingers clicked against the worn keyboard, sending runes and numbers to a data-loom that operated all railway and mass commercial activity in the Outlying Second Southern Sub-District of Olympus Mons. He had worked at his job for three decades, and had performed exemplary. The trains ran on time, there were no mistakes. If he was lucky, in another decade or two, he might be promoted to Chief Magos Technicus of the entire Outlying Southern District's rail and commercial bureau, overseeing over five sub-districts and millions of workers.

It would get him out of this cramped office into something more regal, at least. Maybe an office with a window, rather than an isolated tower locked off visually from the outside world, standing near the primary rail line.

A light began blinking green. He twisted in his throne to clack away at another cogitator. Another train from Mondus Gamma, but this one was very, very large. The previous ones had been moderate in size and had deposited a new form of combat-servitor, or so he was told. Monbet had gotten a good look at them as inspection crews brought some out to get a closer look. They were tall; broad shouldered and looked combat capable by their appearance. He had been assured by his superiors that they were empty servitor shells that waited the human component to make them true servitors. Still, Monbet felt uncomfortable. Looking at them, even through a pict-screen, had made them seem almost alive, sentient perhaps, despite being deactivated and lacking a flesh cerebral. Nonetheless, orders were orders and he had greenlit their passage after a quick inspection. Besides, such tech-heresy would never be allowed in the heart of Mars. Several such cargoes of them had come in, each several thousand strong. But this one, the train slowing down to be inspected, was far more bulked with armour and could hold many tens of thousands of combat-servitors.

The lead inspector on the ground, tech-priest Odonaei, moved towards the command pulpit to sign the data-pad manuscript once inspection had been completed. Odonaei's underlings moved forward, two per cargo hold. As Odonaei approached the command pulpit a figure emerged, causing the tech-priest to stop.

The figure stood just under three metres tall, encased in Mk IV Maximus battle-plate, the sigil on his shoulder pauldron an open hand encased in iron. Monbet turned on auditory receptors to hear their exchange.

"-yourself. Why are legionnaires of the Tenth Legion on this train? You have neither clearance nor permission from the Fabricator-General's office. I must ask you to re-board and wait for the proper authorities to come." Already security details were being despatched. It was preposterous that anything would happen, but protocol must be followed.

The Mechanicum serfs stood before the cargo doors, not opening them. Either they were locked or were waiting on Odonaei's order. The Iron Hand looked around the station, then stared off into the distance at the mountain that gave the forge its name.

"So this is Olympus Mons. The beating heart of the Mechanicum" he said, voice cultured yet gruff. His voice carried a faint Terran accent, one of the many that inhabited humanity's birthworld. "How… disappointing it is." The legionnaire brought up his bolt pistol and fired, killing Odonaei instantly. The cargo doors all along the train opened as if synchronisation revealing thousands of Astartes and tens of thousands more of those combat-servitors. Yet these were not inactive, but upright and wielding heavy calibre weapons, akin to bolters. The legionnaires and combat-servitors unleashed their ordinance against the Skitarii security detail that approached them, killing both the guards and the hundreds of serfs that attempted to flee.

Monbet was stunned. An attack… by Astartes? It was unthinkable, impossible. Yet… it happened. He reached over his console, pressing the emergency alert rune. He stabbed his finger onto the vox to District Command, but only static answered him. Turning slowly in his chair, looking back at the pict-screen, he saw the legionnaire with a pistol gesture towards his tower and two of the combat-servitors raised rocket launchers. They fired.

Monbet closed his eyes.

* * *

Captain Shadrak Meduson, Warleader of the Iron Hands on Mars, began issuing orders to his legionnaires. Several companies moved forward, securing this section for the incoming reinforcements. He took a deep breath of the polluted industrial air, basking in it, before locking his helm into place. Meduson brought out a highly modified data-slate, inputting a code.

The code would go deep into Olympus Mons, activating those battle robots Chrom's lackeys had been able to bribe and lie their way in. Lying in wait in dozens of warehouses, the battle robots, semi-sentient machines using a primitive AI net-code, would activate and begin securing pre-determined positions and strongpoints.

Looking upwards, he saw hundreds of dropships and cargo haulers approaching the forge from the south-east. They would land further in the forge. Chrom's allies had severed inter-district communication in the southern half of the forge and deactivated much of its air defences.

"Come, brothers," he called out, boarding the train that would take him further into Olympus Mons, eventually to the Fabricator-General's Spire. "We have a war to win. For the primarch! The Flesh is Weak!"

"The Flesh is Weak!" they chorused. Aside from the few hundred remaining here, the other several thousand would travel to the forge's heart. And rip it out.

* * *

Fabricator-General Zagreus Kane watched from his office the war that was encompassing the southern and western quarters of Olympus Mons. He knew news of the Dropsite Massacre would cause riots, possibly Chrom taking a more aggressive stance in the Mechanicum Parliament, but this… this was a disaster of the highest order. Hours after the initial wave of hostilities, it seemed around a quarter of the Mechanicum followed Chrom into his madness.

Kane had sent word to Terra, asking for Astartes reinforcements. But that would take several days for them to deploy here. He had to hold until then. Turning from the window, he looked at the highly detailed hololith displaying the war across Mars. The thirty Quadrangles of Mars were awash with red zones of traitor domains and the yellow of an active warzone. Already two dozen forges had capitulated to the traitors. Even worse, two Quadrangles had fallen to the traitors as they were already hotbeds of radicalism: Argyre and Phoenicis. Three others were on the verge of falling with a two dozen more being heavily contested. Only Amazonis, Arabia and Mare Tyrrenhum were free of rebels. Those three would act as the foundation of the loyalist military might. Already, millions of soldiers were redeploying, as were Titan Legions and other heavy units.

Chrom's opening offensive had been devastating, especially in Tharsis. Maximal's old Forge Temple had been overrun and millions had already been killed by Chrom's Skitarii hordes, thankfully the new Fabricator Locum had been at Mondus Occulum, taking up his new duties and responsibilities there. He had ordered the Forge Temple survivors to retreat westward towards Olympus Mons north-eastern districts which remained firmly in loyalist hands.

But that was not all, far from it.

Zeth's Magma City was under siege by close to half a million traitor Skitarii. Ascraeus Mons and Pavonis Mons, fortresses of the Legio Tempestus and Legio Mortis respectively, were under assault by the Legio Damnosus and Legio Excruciatus. Legio Tempestus and Legio Mortis were among the most honoured and veteran Titan Legions in the Mechanicum, having served on the frontlines of the Great Crusade for almost its entirety. But the lion's share of Tempestus was with Roboute Guilliman in Ultramar, and Legio Mortis had been with the Warmaster, returning to Mars for extensive refit when the Lupercal had been rushed to Terra for medical aid. An undermanned Legio and a Legio where most of the units were half-assembled faced against two Legions that not only outnumbered the loyalists, but were all battle-ready. Opening skirmishes favoured the traitors as they moved in for the kill.

Arsia Mons, home of the Knights of Taranis had been crippled by a joint attack by the Knight Houses Morbidia and Medusos. The survivors had withdrawn to the Magma City before its encirclement had been complete. From the south, traitor armies of the Phoenicis Quadrangle had swarmed into southern Tharsis, capturing the Goedii Solar Collector fields effectively intact via a blitzkrieg assault led by a company of Iron Hands. With the solar collectors secured, elements of the Phoenicis Army Group were currently eliminating the last pockets of resistance in the Memnonia Deep Core mining fields. To counter this, Kane had ordered Adept Casbin, Adept Yu, Adept Tos, and Adept Melgator from the western half of the Coprates Quadrangle to assault the flanks of the Phoenicis units and drive them out of Goedii and Memnonia, then swing northward and attack Chrom's forces assaulting Olympus Mons from the rear.

Chrom may have had the element of surprise, and the deployment of thirteen thousand Iron Hands had been a nasty and disturbing shock, but he was simply outnumbered. With Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors soon to arrive from Terra, the campaign should be over in less than a year, give or take.

+My lord, we need to move you,+ urged Magos Trimejia Diadanei. Malevolus stood near her and clicked in agreement.

+Fabricator-General, if you were to die, it would throw Mars into Chaos. We need a symbol of leadership and dependability,+ Malevolus canted plainly

+If I were to die, Ipluvien would become the next Fabricator-General. He is more than capable-+

+Agreed, he is capable,+ interrupted Diadanei, +but he doesn't have the personal loyalty of much of Parliament, nor of the average tech-priest. He can be an effective leader in times of peace, but in this time of war we need _you_.+

Kane thought on that for a moment.

+We will not withdraw,+ he began, seeing the annoyance and frustration in both Diadanei's and Malevolus' stances, +at least not yet. If Adept's Casbin's flank offensive fails or he cannot proceed onwards to relieve us here, then I, the rest of the council, and Parliament will withdraw and join Ipluvien at Mondus Occulum.+

Both subordinates nodded at that. It was a compromise, but one they could live with.

+Now,+ Kane said, studying the green moving dots, triangles and squares that represented Casbin's forces nearing the traitors' flank, +we wait and see.+

* * *

Adept Casbin stood in the command pulpit of his Shadowsword _Deus Dominus_ , heading westward toward the southern tips of the Pallidus Ash Wastes where traitor Adept Koska's forces were, securing their hold on the Goedii Solar Collectors and the Memnonia Deep Core mining fields. Beside him rode the armoured might of three forges. Land Raiders, Baneblades, several other Shadowswords, and other heavy to medium tanks, followed by rank after rank of armoured transports, sped towards their destination. All in all, he had over four thousand tanks of all variants, nine thousand Chimeras and other APCs, and almost three thousand aircraft flew overhead, a mix of fighters, bombers and dropships.

He looked at his adjutant. +Where is Melgator?+

+I'm not sure, my lord. There has been no-+ The adjutant started, looking at his auspex screen. The man shrugged in relief. +To the south-west, Adept.+

Casbin turned to face south-west. In the distance he saw fourteen Titans: Legio Hacza, nicknamed the Green Devils. The only Legio worth any notable strength and firepower in the area, the others were either in the midst of refits or were deployed across the myriad of the Great Crusade's battlefields. Supplementing the Green Devils would be over a thousand tanks, nearly two thousand APCs and six hundred fighter and bomber craft.

+Open a link,+ he ordered.

+Yes, sir.+

A click and a static pop and the link was established.

+Melgator, you're late.+

+No,+ came the response, +I'm right on time.+

Fourteen Titans opened fire, two of them Warmonger variants of the Emperor class. Five of the Titans had the new Electromagnetic Shock Cannons. The energy blasts impacted into the centre of Casbin's, Yu's, and Tos' combined aerial element. The EMP wave overwhelmed the aircraft's on-board electronic defences, such was its power. Hundreds of planes fell from the sky, impacting the ground, bringing a rain of metal and fire to vehicles below.

Vortex missiles, volcano cannon, plasma, thermal, and quake fire rained down onto the Mechanicum land armada. Tens of thousands died in seconds, vehicles ruptured into fiery graves, others flipped from the shockwaves, landing upside down, trapped. Contact with Adept Tos was lost as his Land Raider was torn apart by a vortex missile's temporary warp tear.

+Turn towards them, turn! Get inside their weapons range!+ Casbin yelled.

His Shadowsword veered northward, running over the broken remains of a Baneblade, and the shredded remains of its crew.

+Open a channel to the Fabricator-General.+ He was calm. He would not survive this and had come to terms with it. It would make the next step easier.

+Comms established.+

+My lord Fabricator-General, Adept Melgator is a traitor.+ He conveyed the details of the betrayal, and noted his losses, already he had lost almost forty percent of his forces, either destroyed or crippled.

+I will attempt to do what I can to impede him, but it will not be much. I gladly give my life for the Mechanicum in the hopes that we will see victory in the end. Ave Omnissiah.+

He ended the transmission. He looked over the projected casualty reports. He was down to fifty-six percent fighting capability and losing more every metre of ground his force covered nearing the traitors.

+If we die, we are going to take some of them with us,+ he said over the open channel. +Onward, to defiance and death!+

* * *

Melgator flew over the battlefield, surveying it. Casbin's force had been destroyed; only a few hundred vehicles had been able to successfully retreat. Even those had fighter-bombers and gunships pursuing them, destroying many, leaving few survivors that would make it back to their forges.

It was a complete tactical victory. Unfortunately, his own force suffered losses. Three of his Titans had been made inoperable, two to the point of unrecoverable. Already, work teams scavenged through the metal behemoths, taking all that could be used again.

He folded his arms. With his true loyalties now revealed he would make way to Mondus Gamma to plan further with Chrom.

+For the Dark Mechanicum,+ he canted softly as his dropship soared over the metal graveyard.

* * *

Kane walked towards the waiting Stormbird barely three hours after news of the massacre of in the southern tip of the Pallidus Ash Wastes. It was a disaster: three forge-armies, and their adepts, wiped out in a single battle. Already Melgator's almost completely intact force had begun reinforcing Chrom's rebel units in Olympus Mons. The Spire had been lost, as had the Temple of All Knowledge, though loyalist resistance had dug in on the north and east of the forge, their defiance stiffened by reinforcements in the form of companies of the Imperial Fists and battalions of the Iron Warriors, as well as several divisions of Skitarii.

His council had already evacuated, as had the entire loyalist Parliament. He would be the last to leave, it was only fitting. Olympus Mons was not fit in its current state to be the home of the fabricator-General. Not all of it was lost, but half of it was. It would be costly, and would not happen today, but it would soon. It was necessary.

The Schism for Mars had barely begun, but it would be a bloody war. Kane boarded, his fighter escort hovering nearby. The Stormbird took off from north-eastern Olympus Mons, heading towards Mondus Occulum. He would return in time, and in victory.

* * *

 **Kelbor-Hal's Council:**

Fabricator-General: Kelbor-Hal (assassinated)

Fabricator Locum: Zagreus Kane

Mechanicum Ambassador to Terra: Melgator

Primarius Logis: unnamed

Genetor Majoris: unnamed

Master of Statutes: Marcus Arpino

Explorator Primus: Voryn Handar (assassinated)

Lord of the Temple of All Knowledge: Adons Casviscius (assassinated)

Ambassador to the Collegia Titanica: vacant

Chief Magos of the Librarium Tehnologica: Ludd

 **Zagreus Kane's Council:**

Fabricator-General: Zagreus Kane

Fabricator Locum: Ipluvien Maximal

Mechanicum Ambassador to Terra: Arkhan Land

Primarius Logis: Trimejia Diadanei

Genetor Majoris: Manzius Rodriggos

Master of Statutes: Marcus Arpino

Explorator Primus: Hamien Chou

Lady of the Temple of All Knowledge: Sindha Acamahd

Ambassador to the Collegia Titanica: Koriel Zeth

Chief Magos of the Librarium Tehnologica: Ludd

Inspector-General of the Legiones Astartes: Urtzi Malevolus


	22. Anthology Three

**Anthology Three**

 **The Vaults Unlocked**

Deep in the bowels of the Olympus Mons Forge was an intricately locked door, impenetrable by drilling devices or cogitator hacking. The electronic firewall far outclassed anything the modern Mechanicum used, and the several metres thick armour was of an element that was unknown to all but a few.

Shadrak Meduson descended into the depths where even rogue servitors and hive scum dare not traverse. Standing in front of the locked double-sided doors were close to sixty tech-priests, some of whom were Adepts while the majority were Magi, other lesser ranks acting as adjutants.

It had been a week since the Schism had begun; revealing nearly a third of the Cult Mechanicum followed the War Commander. The two most powerful men within the Dark Mechanicum, Chrom and Melgator, were present for this historical day: the opening of the Vaults of Moravec. Lukas Chrom, styling himself as Voice of the True Omnissiah conversed with his second-in-command, Adept Melgator, whose massacre of loyalists in the Battle of the Southern Pallidus Ash Wastes impressed Meduson.

The Iron Hand captain moved to stand before the Vaults doors, appreciating the vivid relief works engraved upon its every centimetre of surface. He pulled out the intricate ident-key, within housed a unique digital footprint: the key to the Vaults of Moravec. Only two were known to exist. One was under the permanent purview of the Emperor, while the other was Horus' responsibility when the First Found became command-in-chief of the Crusade's vast armies and fleets. Erebus had stolen it from Horus' flagship in the hours after the Warmaster's wounding on Davin.

The war with the loyalists was so far going well for the Dark Mechanicum, but that would not last forever. Outnumbered and outgunned, the only hope the rebel Adepts had in holding back the loyalists long enough for the War Commander to arrive was to use weapons of such horror and devastation that equalled out the scales.

He inserted the ident-key into its slot, the code programmed within overriding the locking mechanism. Loud and deep _thunks_ and _clunks_ of gears moving, retracting and sliding out of position resounded from the doors. A slight moment of silence, then the doors began to retract slowly but surely.

Within was only darkness. Meduson stepped forward, bolt pistol ready for whatever emerged. Passing the Vaults entryway, glow-globes began to come alive, clicking on above his head and proceeding inwards at a rapid pace. It just kept going, metre after metre, kilometre after kilometre to the point where he could no longer mark out what lay beyond. Flanking either side of alit pathway every few metres were alcoves. Stepping forward he peered in. Softer, yellow light turned on as he neared. In the alcove was a sealed storage unit, locked. Standing before it at waist level was a small plaque that read 'Vault Unit #1.' Following that bland designation was the unlock code, what lay within, its abilities and brief history. He kneeled before the Vault Unit, tapping the numerical keypad before him. As the last number was inputted, the unit unlocked with a sharp click.

He pulled open the door and saw a data-chip on a small dais. He could see… shadows moving within it, twisting and turning.

"Scrapcode," said Chrom from behind, reading the plaque. He used his augmetic voice box as none outside the Mechanicum spoke its lingua technis. "This will be quite useful."

Meduson stepped away from the unit, allowing a tech-priest to come forward to touch the hallowed data-chip. "Yes," he commented. "It should be able to be modified to strike at loyalist networks."

"Doubtless they have already updated their firmware and firewalls since the Schism broke out, but this will still cause great harm to the loyalist war effort."

"Excellent." Meduson began walking down the immediate alcoves, many of them occupied by a tech-priest or two, metallic and flesh digits tapping away at data-slates as they catalogued, seeing what would be best in staving off the loyalist war machine.

It would take many months, if not longer, to even scratch the surface of what lay here in the Vaults, but Medsuon hoped it would be enough until his gene-sire and the Phoenician arrived to usurp the False Emperor.

* * *

 **The Emperor Protects**

"And He said unto His people, 'The horrors of Old Night no longer haunt us for I have revealed Myself to Mankind. Our home secured, we shall venture forth unto the stars to conquer what is humanity's birth right, led by My Holy Sons and I.'" She closed the worn book, setting it down on the podium. She had not read directly from it, as she had long ago memorised every chapter, verse, and word within the text.

"Praise be the God-Emperor!" she exclaimed.

"Praise be!" the believers exalted, many firmly clasping simple stamped-iron Aquilas dangling from their necks. She saw some believers holding on so tightly as to cause double eagle cuts in their palms, blood dripping out.

"Only the truly divine deny their divinity!" She formed the Aquila with her hands, raising it for all to see.

The assembly mirrored her, thousands of them, ever growing as the days continued and news of the war that neared a yearlong worsened. "Only the true, only the true, only the true!"

"Now, sons and daughters of the God-Emperor, go forth and spread the Holy Word." The assembly began to disperse. "And remember," she said, her voice cutting through the vast chamber in one of Terra's many underhive slums. The crowd turned to face her, their eyes ablaze with faith. "The Emperor protects."

They repeated the sacred words back to her and dispersed.

"Did you see who was in the crowd, my Lady Prophet? Did you see?" asked Bishop Danton, this church's principal priest. She was a guest speaker, moving from church to church throughout Terra.

Euphrati Keeler, Living Saint and Prophet of the God-Emperor of Mankind nodded, her long blonde hair perfectly combed, her grey dress functional. She did not need to be gaudy or drowned in riches. Spreading the Word of the Emperor's divinity was more than enough for her.

"Fourteen Arbites, dozens of Administratum scribes and clerks, and others from countless walks of life; and that's just what I could see from here. I even saw several nobles and an iterator!" Danton rubbed his hands together in genuine excitement. "The Faith is spreading."

"It is." She looked heavenward, almost as if she could see through the countless tonnes of rock, metal and dirt. "It has too." And it indeed needed too. News and rumours of the civil war were rampant. Traitor fleet smashed at Pilion II. No, rather it was the traitors who destroyed a loyalist fleet at Pilion II. Or was it Pilion III? Vulkan lives and walked the Emperor's halls. No, he lay dead in his crypt beneath the Imperial Palace. Corax fought beside Fulgrim, evident with thousands of his sons fighting in the traitor ranks. No, the XIX split into two, with one led by Corax fighting for the Emperor while another led by a Shade Lord fought for the Phoenician. No, Corax fought for neither the Emperor nor the Arch-Traitor, leading his legionnaires to fight as an independent separatist movement. Keeler knew that the Ravenlord was loyal, but others were sceptical. It was hard to blame them.

Everything was awash with confusion, and such confusion bred fear. Fear forced many who were once strict adherents to the Imperial Truth to search for a deeper meaning. Kyril was like that. Once the 63rd Expeditionary Fleet's primary iterator, he had become an advocate for the Faith amongst Horus' war-fleet fighting out on the frontlines. But fear… fear was a canker. Millions had committed suicide on the Throneworld since the war had begun, and that was only the reported cases, undeniably vastly underestimated. Hundreds of millions more fell into alcoholism or other excesses, and that was a conservative estimate. But many, and growing larger every day, had joined the growing Imperial Cult. On Terra alone, it was circulated amongst the informal priesthood that several hundred million men and women were now part of the Cult, nearing half a billion. Though still technically outlawed, none dared touch it. Religions preaching of gods not of the Emperor were still arrested, and those that spoke of the daemons and other malevolent entities in the warp as gods were usually taken and never seen again, likely executed by the Arbites or other Imperial agents.

Good. She deeply loved humanity, but she was a fool blinded by idealism. She knew some would always be tempted by evil and damnation. She looked around the chamber, more and more looking like a proper church. A large Aquila made from rough stone, crafted by a sculptor for free as a token of his faith, stood behind the speaker's podium. Lining the walls were five metre tall statues of the Ten Loyal Primarchs, with a relief of the Emperor above the entrance greeting those that attended service. The likeness wasn't exact but was better than could be expected here. An empty swathe of stone stood behind her. Soon, a team of artisan painters would be commissioned to paint the Emperor surrounded by His loyal Sons, Holy Custodes and valiant Astartes.

She took a deep breath. "I am going for a walk," she announced.

Bishop Danton thumbed his chin in thought. "Very well, my lady Saint. I will arrange a security detail." Danton went off, calling for guards. Euphrati did not much care for the idea, but realized that to be guarded represented strength and security to the masses, which would further draw more and more to their cause, and away from the pretender faiths.

Once a proper detail of thirty men had been assembled, they set off. The guards were formerly Imperial Army Special Forces or Arbites shock brigade officers, all highly trained and devoted to both her and the God-Emperor. As the Creed grew, so too did the need for a militant branch to enforce its dictates and matters of doctrine with other Emperor-centred religious sects. The answer to this was the formation of the Frateris Templar, with a sub-formation called the Temple Guards to protect the Emperor's churchly sanctums.

"My lady Saint, we are ready," said this unit's commander, a Sergeant Kebsel.

She nodded and they left the church's secure domain, heading deep into the underhive's slums. Euphrati took these walks for a variety of reasons, namely to spread the Emperor's Word to the people, handing out small, cheap versions of the Lectitio Divinitatus book to the homeless, the trodden, and the weary. Many accepted this, blessing Euphrati and the Emperor though some refused. These she passed by. Several of her Guards would stay behind to 'convince them' which usually ended in stern warnings. Though she didn't approve or sponsor such activities, she knew other priests enforced their rule to the unaligned groups via physical violence such as beatings and property damage. She detested such methods, but the Cult realized Mankind needed to be united behind the Emperor in a singular vision for Him to defeat the traitor Third Son, corrupted by the Ruinous Powers.

She had seen what the Fell Powers could do. She had seen daemons take legionnaire hosts in the Whisperhead Mountains on Sixty-Three Nineteen. She had seen Hell. It had scarred her, frightened her, but also revealed the Emperor's Light to her. She embraced that Light and now spread it out in His Divine Name, for the sake of all of Mankind's eternal souls.

As she pondered such things, her detail walked through a market. Vendors sold questionable meats and half-spoiled fruits and vegetables. At a cursory glance, all seemed normal, but then she felt it: a presence with murderous intent. Kebsel noticed it as well, though his was from military experience, not divine protection. Three men, dressed in all black, rushed from half-broken stall, chipped pointed daggers in their hands. One of her guards was stabbed in the neck, falling down as blood began gushing out, drenching his trench coat and flak armour in gore. One assailant was shot by a Guard, his lasgun smoking as the las-bolt burned through the attacker's chest, killing him. Another was tripped up by bystanders, they attempting to pull him down. They attacker stabbed one woman in the heart and she fell down, gasping for air. The other bystanders tore into the assailant, beating him into unconsciousness and then stabbed with his own blade. The third attacker neared her. He raised his arm to strike.

"Cease," she commanded. The power, the weight in those words washed over the assailant and he found himself paralysed, frozen in his stance. Kebsel rushed and hit him in the stomach with the butt of his rifle. The Temple Guard Sergeant raised his lasgun to execute the assassin.

"No," Euphrati said, touching Kebsel's shoulder. "We will interrogate him." She leaned down, sensing wrongness from the assassin. Grabbing cloth, she pulled back his cloak and shirt, revealing a pale, skinny shoulder with an Eight Pointed Star on it. The tattoo ink seemed to move as she looked at it. Kebsel hissed, raising his rifle but was forestalled by her. She laid her hand on the tattoo. It almost seemed to writhe under her touch.

"Be gone, I banish you back to Hell from whence you came." The man screamed in pain, crimson tears falling down gaunt cheeks. He fell to his knees. When Euphrati pulled her hand away, the tattoo was gone, replaced by a fading golden hue. She could feel it in her veins, the Emperor's Light. She saw the Guardsman and the brave woman on death's door.

Moving quickly, she acted. "Bring them to me." Her guards followed suit, bringing the two over to lay beside her. Clasping her hands together, she began a brief prayer to the Throne, clutching her Aquila, feeling heat blaze from it. She reached out, touching the wounds on both. Still praying, she healed them, golden light basking the wounds and seeping from her eyes as if smoke.

Both the man and woman's wounds healed instantly, leaving only reddened skin. Both took deep breaths, coughing, and struggled to their knees. They looked at her in amazement. A quick look saw that hundreds had witnessed it, and already she heard words such as 'miracle,' 'saint' and 'prophet' being whispered.

"My Lady Prophet, how?" asked the woman, her arms clutched around a crying boy of perhaps ten who had rushed to her side. Her child? Likely.

Euphrati took several deep breaths before she could respond. "The Emperor… protects."

And at that the lady bowed her head to the floor, facing Euphrati. "The Emperor protects," she cried. The Guards, almost as if one organism, took to their knees and bowed, repeating the words. Then one by one, as if an ocean tidal wave swept through them, the crowd went to their knees, bowing low and reverently.

"The Emperor protects," they said, their voices and praise full of belief. Euphrati smiled and rose, the others remained where they were, barring the assailant who struggled under the weight of two Guards who handcuffed him. Euphrati made the Aquila, bowing towards where she felt His presence, far to the east, in His Throne Room.

"The Emperor protects."

* * *

 **Shodan**

Adept Lukas Chrom, Voice of the True Omnissiah, stood before a bank of highly modified cogitators deep within the secured walls of Mondus Gamma, inputting data and finalising complex algorithms. What he did today was of the upmost importance, delayed by recent events and setbacks, but it would allow the staggering Dark Mechanicum to reassert control over various territories on Mars, and stiffen the frontlines so as to deny the loyalists for even longer. A year after the Schism began and now things were slowly turning against them, as he, Melgator and Meduson had predicted. The new battle-robots that ran off a limited adaptable Abominable Intelligence, Meduson's Astartes, and the Dark Mechanicum's initial gains had put the loyalists on the back foot but they had now nearly regained it. Opening up the Vaults of Moravec and exploiting what lay within had helped as well, extending traitor control to almost half of Mars. The scrapcode had greatly helped, despite its lack of widespread usage as the loyalists had updated their systems, but the neutrals largely had not and many of those forges were now radioactive craters due to their nuclear reactors exploding. What few neutrals survived had gone to the loyalists, though a surprising handful had joined the Dark Mechanicum out of fear. Now, there were but a handful of true neutrals left and likely would not remain as they were by war's end.

Not only was his project of military value but it would be a scientific breakthrough and bring him closer to the True Omnissiah. It would raise not only his knowledge but his closeness to the Machine God.

"Status?" he queried to one of his aides.

The female tech-priest checked her data-slate. "Ninety-seven percent upload, Adept."

"Excellent." He stepped away from the cogitators, moving to the wall where a one metre thick window separated him from what lay within. It was a hulking thing of metal, not a scrap of flesh on it. Its cerebrum held not a brain from humans, but an intricately designed and advanced cyber matrix, similar to those that were once common thousands of years ago during the Dark Age of Technology. It would house not a machine-spirit but an A.I., one of Chrom's own making.

He had made many modifications and enhancements over the years he had devoted to this project, but it had only been when the Vaults were opened that he created the final piece: the A.I. central processing unit, the brain of the machine. Basing it off of a design that supposedly was a variant of the Men of Iron; he adapted and upgraded it to become one of the deadliest creations ever made on Mars in nearly six thousand years.

The CPU had been installed, it was now receiving the latest data-package and then his project would be a success.

"Ninety-eight percent… ninety-nine percent," called the aide, "one hundred percent! Initialising."

The Machine sported three heads, each housing advanced sensor suite. Its 'legs' were tract treads, both the width of an arm. On its back hung four highly modified mechadendrites, each capable of shooting a variety of energy weaponry. Its arms were thickly wrapped in metal, one a melta cannon, the other a six-barrelled heavy stubber. It was a machine of death, and it was beautiful.

As the data-package finished uploading, the initialisation boot began, lasting several minutes. Chrom never looked away. The start-up finished and the three large glassy orbs that acted as eyes turned on, glowing a baleful red. The Machine saw Chrom first. It looked around, as if genuinely curious.

Fascinating.

"What am I?" it canted.

"You, my dear creation, are the future."

"The… future?" The Machine moved its arm cannons, pulling free thick cable wires. It trudged forward to the glass. You are my creator?

"Yes."

"Why was I made?"

"To fight wars and better my understanding of A.I. You will win this war for us. You are an aspect of the Omnissiah."

"War?" it paused a moment, checking its historical files, reading through several hundred terabytes of data within seconds. "Ah, that war. The Schism of Mars. The Fulgrimian Heresy."

"Yes."

Chrom's aide stepped forward. "Adept Chrom, I'm noticing-"

Chrom had an idea. "Kill her," he ordered.

The Machine's eyes locked onto the aide and raised its weapons, seeing her as an enemy target. Chrom stepped out of the way. The meltagun was fired first, melting through the thick glass, with the heavy stubber gearing up to fire. The aide stopped in her tracks and began to back step towards her peers who stood near the bank of cogitators, looking on with alarm. The Machine's burst of gunfire stopped her, shredding her body with finger thick calibre rounds.

Chrom looked at his frightened subordinates. "Kill them as well."

The Machine raised its weapon towards the other aides who were retreating, running towards the door. It fired upon them, slaying them all. Chrom watched in awe at its flawless execution. After killing the tech-priests the Machine emerged from its creation tank, stepping over broken bits of metal and glass, some still glowing with the heat of melta weaponry.

The Machine looked at the female tech-priest, blood and oil spreading from her to cover a large area.

"She called you something. 'Adept Chrom.'"

"Lukas Chrom, that is my name. My rank is Adept."

The Machine pondered that. "And… and what is my name?"

Chrom moved forward and laid a hand on its tract, as a father would to a child's knee.

"Your name is Shodan."

* * *

 **God-Machine**

Klaxons rang loudly in Pavonis Mons, hazard and warning lights flashing the tunnels that led to the Titan deployment zone. Hundreds of tech-priests, servitors and Legio serfs rushed about. Orders were thrown back and forth over the vox, some conflicting. This was a day never to be expected, not under the Imperium's rule. Mars was at war… with itself. Following the disastrous reports of the Dropsite Massacre and the reveal of Fulgrim as the Arch-Traitor who called himself War Commander, the Red Planet had erupted in mass rebellion. From Mondus Gamma came column after column of armour and infantry, supported by aerial wings numbering in the thousands. The war, the Schism as it was already being called, was less than three hours old and traitor Titan Legions were already near the home Legio Mortis.

Senior Princeps Esau Turnet walked confidently down the corridor, his two Moderati Primus behind him. The rest of his officers and crew had already boarded the engine. The trio ascended a metal ramp, turned sharply and stood in the deployment zone. It was vast, housing over forty war-engines, but all but thirteen of those were under refit. Out of those thirteen, nine had been sent out when the Schism began to act as scouts and as a deterrent force.

They had been destroyed, all of them. Now Turnet and his comrades would go out to meet the enemy, to delay them so the other, half-assembled Titans could be evacuated to Mondus Occulum. Already heavy bulk lifters were arriving and serfs began to attach a multitude of thick cables to the Titans to evacuate by air.

The princeps reached the end of the ramp, adjacent to the cockpit of his Titan: the _Dies Irae_. Striding in, he nodded towards the saluting crew. Only three seats were empty: his and the Moderati Primus.

Sitting down, he waited patiently for an enginseer to attack the cerebrals connectors, allowing him to control his god-machine as if it was an extension of his own self. Both Moderati did the same, to further enhance the combat capability of the Titan and to act as backup pilots in case anything happened to the princeps. Looking over his cogitator screen, he saw power levels, ammunition count, and energy reserves, plus countless more details.

Looking through the 'eyes' of his war-engine, he saw the _Aquila Ingis_ , a newly constructed Imperator-class, readying itself. Two other Titans, the _Eye of Lupercal_ , named in honour of Horus, and the _Ares Indictum_ , left their positions, marching up the incline that led to the surface. Shock clamps that had held them in place retracted into the wall. Both Warhounds were to act as the eyes and ears of the two Imperators. Moving alongside and behind the Warhounds were the Secutarii battalions. A healthy mix of light and medium tanks, as well as various APCs, they would act as the mop up unit, destroying what few fragments of enemy formations survived.

"Final diagnostics," he commanded.

"Final diagnostics, copy," responded Titus Cassar, rapidly taping away at his keyboard.

"Enemy estimates?" he asked.

Jonah Aruken, his other Primus, spoke, "Twenty-seven confirmed engines, sixteen from Legio Damnosus and eleven from Legio Excruciatus."

"Classes?"

"Three Warhounds, six Reavers, fifteen Warlords, and one Imperator and two Warmongers."

Turnet frowned. "So few Scouts…"

Aruken continued, "Our advance force hit their Scout units hard, destroying four and forcing five to withdraw. They also took down two Reavers and two Warlords, as well as various amounts of damage to a dozen other engines."

"Understood. Cassar?"

"All systems are green, sir."

"Good. Establish a secure data- and vox-link with the other three."

"Yes, princeps." A moment's pause. "Links established, sir."

"Very well. Move out."

The _Dies Irae_ was the first to move from its berth, _Aquila Ignis_ allowing the more senior and veteran Titan to lead. As the Titan emerged from the earth, the sunlight of Sol detailing the motifs and kill-marks on _Dies Irae_ 's flank, the Titan's horns blared, announcing its joining of the war. Behind it, once _Aquila Igni_ emerged, it too blared its horns, shaking the air with its strength.

"Now," he said over the vox channel, "we hunt."

The squadron made way eastward towards the Noctis Labyrinthus, though they did not enter that valley-ridden area as it will swarming with traitor forces. Rather they skirted alongside it, hunting for rebel formations. It did not take long to find first traitors to die were the crew of a one Warhound, its void shields overloaded with one shot from _Dies Irae_ 's Plasma Annihilator. Following that was a burst from its Hellstorm Cannon that reduced the traitor engine to a heap of melting scrap. The command crew did not cheer, the Warhound was but a weakling compared to the Imperator god-machine. The real targets lay further away, and closing.

The four loyalist Titans took down an additional two rebel engines, one a Reaver and the other a partially damaged Warlord. No casualties, though _Eye of Lupercal_ suffered some damage and half of its void shield generators were fried. Turnet ordered it to take up the rear, leaving _Ares Indictum_ as the only viable Scout. Several intercepted Dark Mechanicum armoured divisions were reduced to slag, their remnants scoured by the Secutarii.

While the enemy casualties mounted as the day continued, Turnet felt unease.

"This is too easy…" He looked over the nav-plot, the hololith flickering as the Titan made another step, sending faint judders to even the command head. It showed both Imperators within a kilometre of each other, acting as support to the other with _Ares Indictum_ forty kilometres to the east, and _Eye of Lupercal_ twenty kilometres to the rear.

Something did not feel right.

 _"Ares Indictum_ , status."

A hiss and pop followed, atmospheric distortion from deployment of weapons, electro-magnetic missiles and energy bleed through made communication spotty on occasion. Another hiss and pop followed.

 _"Ares Indictum_ , status. Respond immediately."

"Copy, _Dies Irae_ ," came the response, the comms popping with interference. Turnet breathed easier. "Status is all clear, no sign of enemy engines, over."

 _"Eye of Lupercal_ , status?" Turnet noticed the Warhound engine was passing by a battlefield, a result of the skirmish from earlier that day. Two loyal engines lay dead there, with only a single traitor engine. The Secutarii for both forces had clashed and their wreckage littered the field for kilometres around where the Titans confronted one another.

"All clear, sir. No prob-" the voice stopped suddenly.

 _"Eye of Lupercal_? _Eye of Luercal?!"_

The ident-code representing the Warhound blinked and went out, leaving only a red outline. It was dead. Damn. The littered battlefield likely had traitor Skitarii survivors and they had picked off the Warhound with whatever armaments they had left. Several dozen cannon shells or rockets into the unshielded half of the Warhound would have seen to its quick demise.

"Command, what is the status on the evacuation?"

It had been nearly five hours since they left Pavonis Mons.

The signal went through easily, the vox receivers at the temple were quite powerful and far reaching.

"Nearly done, Princeps Turnet. Another hour and all engines will be evacuated to Mondus Occulum."

"Copy. Note, squadron has suffered one engine loss, _Eye of Lupercal_ was lost. I repeat _Eye of Lupercal_ was lost. Returning to base, over."

"Copy, _Dies Irae_." The channel was terminated.

 _"Ares Indictum_ , withdraw to coordinates-"

"Contact, contact! Enemy Titans! Four Warlords, three Reavers, one Warhound, a Warmonger, and an Imperator. By the Omnissiah, they came out of nowhere. One moment auspex was clear, the next it was filled with red idents!"

"Pull back immediately. Rendezvous with us. We are withdrawing at flank speed back towards Pavonis Mons. You'll catch up in," he did a quick calculation; "eight minutes." The Warhound's speed greatly outclassed the Imperators and would easily catch up with them. But ten engines appearing out of nowhere was simply impossible. Did the traitors deploy something to interfere with their auspex sensors, or did the engines themselves have signal reflector coating? Likely, they had used the old tactic of "playing dead." Power at a base minimum, weapons and sensors shut down, it made them incredibly vulnerable but also difficult to spot unless one where to walk right up to them. Playing dead allowed the enemy to not see you, but also made you blind and deaf unless they were within visual range. An old tactic, and rarely used in the field as it was deemed too risky. But the rebel commanding princeps accurately predicted Turnet's trajectory would be and had laid in wait.

The _Dies Irae_ and _Aquila Ignis_ turned from the east, facing westward and retraced their steps. At flank speed they covered large swathes of ground quickly, but it still felt too slow. Ahead of them, not too far from where _Eye of Lupercal_ went down, five crimson idents popped up on the hololith, not thirty kilometres away and closing fast.

Checking the ident-codes, he saw their classification and cursed. Three Warlords, all Nightgaunt sub-class, a Reaver and, most worrisome, a Warmonger.

Turnet scowled, but kept his Titan moving. Senior Princeps Camulos opened a personal channel between the two of them.

"Esau, orders?"

"Push through them, concentrate on the Warmonger."

"Aye."

Both Imperators fired their primary weapons at the Warmonger. The range was long for their weapons, with both engines moving, causing much of the weapons' fire missed. The missiles however were guided well by their machine-spirits and impacted the Warmonger's void shielding, but it still held solidly. Other missile and primary weapon salvoes hit the other engines, taking out one Warlord and damaging another.

Both the Imperator and Warmonger Titans shared their origins with the Emperor class, once being sub-classes for the Emperor class before the default Emperor faded and was replaced by the more specialised Imperators and Warmongers. The Imperators were most optimal in short to mid-range engagements. Its armament supported this, as did extra armour plating. The Warmonger on the other hand had lighter armour and shielding, but had long range weapons and the storage capacity to maintain a heavy barrage for quite some time.

Turnet hoped to get within the Warmonger's range, taking away its major advantage, and destroy it with the _Aquila Ingis'_ assistance, then mop up the remaining traitor engines. For a moment, it looked like that would happen. But the weapons on the Warmonger had successfully been repowered up from its 'playing dead' state. Warning runes flashed of enemy targeting.

And then it fired. Over eighty missiles were fired in the initial salvo, followed by several shots fired from its ultra-heavy calibre cannon it had for an arm. The other arm, a Hellstorm Cannon, unleashed its devastating barrage. The Warmonger aimed at both of them, but it focused its fire on the _Aquila Ignis_. Void shielding flickered and then blinked out, the resulting sound akin to a thunderclap. Missiles, artillery shells several metres long, and Hellstorm energy fire impacted the loyal engine. Explosions burst from its mechanical structure, small figures, crewmembers, he realised, doused in fire fell to their death. The Titan's head exploded, Camulos and his command crew wiped out in an instant. The _Aquila Ingis_ faltered, slowing down considerably, but kept trudging onwards at a much reduced pace. Control of the god-machine began instantly transferring to the secondary command crew located in the centre. It wasn't a seamless transition, it almost never was, but it kept the engine in the fight.

 _Dies Irae_ was hit, its shields mauled, but only two generators blew out, weakening his forward protection, but he got off easy. The two remaining Warlords and the Reaver fired their own weapons but it was marginal compared to what the Warmonger could deal out. Another generator blew, an entire subsection in his left leg was caught in a fire from a leaking fuel line, over a hundred dead in seconds, but he continued. His Secutarii units began to launch their fusillades against the traitor engines, focusing on the wounded Warlord. The intact Warlord destroyed them in several sweeps of its cannons, but not before the wounded Warlord lost function of its leg, it locking up as too many systems had failed.

Turnet raised his hand, controlling the Hellstorm Cannon, and fired. A single burst but it was enough to hit the unshielded leg, piercing through the metres thick metal. So much of the leg was melted off that the Titan began to lean, off balance due to the inadequate weight distribution. Though he couldn't hear it, Turnet imagined the snapping and rending sound of metal as the Titan began to list and fall to the ground, its princeps helpless to prevent its fall. It fell onto its back, its weapons broken or locked facing skyward.

With the target down, he focused on the Warmonger. A salvo of missiles, the machine-spirit warning him he had few left, flew out and impacted the enemy Titan's shielding. It overloaded the generators centred on the right arm, leaving it exposed. He was only five kilometres away mow. He fired another salvo into the open hole there, buckling metal and wrecking point defence weapons.

Three kilometres. He fired both his Annihilator and Hellstorm into the unprotected arm. He destroyed the ultra-heavy artillery cannon, and further damaged more generators, forcing the shielding to deteriorate further. The Warmonger fired its own Hellstorm, overloading three more of Turnet's generators and mangling his own Hellstorm. But he still had his Plasma Annihilator. Barely three hundred metres away, he turned sharply, aiming the Annihilator down the gaping hole that led to the engine's innards and fired. The plasma fire burned through intricate circuitry, taking out the primary and secondary command crews, and broke the containment on the Warmonger's plasma reactor. Rushing by it, and turning _Dies Irae_ 's full shielded backside to face it, the enemy Warmonger exploded. Two more generators were overloaded and warning runes of damage throughout his aft sections. Damage control teams were already being deployed, but it was severe.

The undamaged Warlord had moved to close to the Warmonger, intent on support. This attempt at assistance saw its shields become overloaded by the destructive radioactive blast, frying its on-board electronics and killing most of the crew, the rest to be dead within hours from radiation poisoning. The Reaver began to fire at _Dies Irae_ 's open backside, but the _Aquila Ignis_ , now under full control of the reserve command crew, pummelled the traitor Reaver with several shots from its weapons. The crisped war-engine fell, half torn apart. The _Dies Irae_ neared the partially operable one-legged Warlord. Its shields were gone and weapons inactive. Turnet's god-machine raised one of its massive legs and brought it crashing down on the Titan's head, avoiding its reactor but landing a crippling blow. Withdrawing the foot, and backing away, a quick burst from his Annihilator saw the engine become unrecoverable.

Surveying the battlefield and his hololith, Turnet grunted. They may have won but it cost them dear in time and speed. _Ares Indictum_ had caught up with them and began to slow down, but ceased doing so by Turnet's orders.

The Warhound would make it back to Pavonis Mons for the withdrawal north, but not the two Imperators. It was clear if they tried to retreat they would be caught up with in minutes and destroyed.

A vox notification came from the _Aquila Ignis_.

"Yes?" Turnet answered. "Who is this?"

"Moderati Secundus Pynes, active commander of the _Aquila Ignis_."

"Combat capability?"

"All but one of my generators is inoperable. Frontal armour is effectively gone. Weapons are good as is backup sensors. You, sir?"

"Four generators left, missile reserves gone, leaking plasma and my Hellstorm is gone."

"I see." A brief pause. "Sir, I recommend you withdraw. This engine is wounded but it still has claws, sir. Another pause, longer this time. "There's no reason for you to die today, sir."

Turnet exhaled slowly. He looked over his crew, seeing their tension and their worry. If they fought, they would die, and for what? A single Warhound to survive. No, no. The _Dies Irae_ would have a longer life, and earn more glory and honour in the years to come. It could do far more for the Mechanicum by surviving this day.

"I will withdraw. May the Omnissiah guide you and greet you in the afterlife."

"Ave Omnissiah." Pynes' voice sounded resigned but committed.

"Ave Omnissiah."

The _Dies Irae_ limped from the battlefield as fast it could. Step after step it left the graveyard of so many brave souls. Turnet's aft pict-captures and vid-recorders were damaged, forcing him to rely on a hololith that cut in and out. He saw the blue ident-code of the loyal Imperator move eastward towards the approaching crimson runes. Six engines met the Aquila Ignis: three Warlords and their three remaining Reavers. Sending Warhounds would have been suicidal, and the traitor's Scout contingent had taken a beating this day. The traitor Warmonger and Imperator did not join the engagement. Either it was because they were too slow, or more likely because the traitors did not wish to risk them.

The _Aquila Ignis_ destroyed two Reavers and a Warlord before it fell in battle, its ident-code a deathly crimson with the deceased rune above it. Turnet worried the traitors would pursue him, they could reach him if they redlined their reactors but they abstained. They had taken heavy losses this day. But worse, the Dark Mechanicum now controlled the western approaches to the Noctis Labyrinthus. Furthermore, the undermanned Legio Tempestus was pushed out of Tharsis Montes. The way to the two loyal Legio fortresses now lay open. At least Pavonis Mons had been evacuated, and Ascraeus Mons was in its final stages of evacuating key personnel, Titans and other resources to Mondus Occulum.

Today, he had both won and lost, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. But such days would be few and far between, he thought. From henceforth, he would strive for total victory or die in the attempt.

* * *

 **The Thrill of War**

In a system that featured six barren rocky worlds and a dying star, four White Scar strike cruisers hunted a wounded battle-barge. The Astartes capital ship belonged to the Nineteenth Legion. For the moment, thought Timur Gantulga, Khan of the Brotherhood of the Silver Crescent. The Raven Guard had been plaguing the White Scars under Qin Fai Noyan-Khan's command since the _ordu_ left the Great Storm all those months ago. Qin Fai, commanding nearly six thousand legionnaires, had grown tired of the Ravenlord's sons nipping at his heels. The Noyan-Khan had laid a trap in the Al-toi System for the XIX taskforce, using cargo ships filled to the brim with newly captured slaves as bait. As predicted, the sons of Corax attempted to free the slaves, killing the few Chogorian Army platoons that kept watch over them, only to be caught by the full might of Qin Fai's Horde.

The thirteen Raven Guard ships had been reduced to four in a single day. Three were captured before they left Al-toi. The single escape had been a mortally damaged battle-barge that was in its death throes. It just didn't realise it yet. Only Timur Gantulga's squadron had been close enough to follow the loyalist warship into the Immaterium. The battle-barge had only performed a quick jump, hoping to escape and enact emergency repairs, but the White Scars had doggedly chased it.

The battle-barge turned lethargically, more so than usual. Trailing from the ship to the Mandeville point was a trail of wreckage and plasma. One of its reactors must have been compromised and vented. The battle-barge, identified as the _Raven's Call_ , fired its broadside. What once would have crippled Timur's squadron in a single salvo, now just lightly damaged one strike cruiser. None of the four stopped though, instead rushing towards their target.

Timur sat in a boarding torpedo with nine other legionnaires. All but two had their helms on, those last two cutting the Prince's sigil into their flesh with their blades. Was it for recognition, a call for blessing? Or was it simply to feel the sigil burn and squirm into their skin, leaving a uniquely different painful pleasure to course through their pain receptors? Timur did not spit disgust as he might have years ago, when the Legion purged itself on Chondax. He did not reprimand nor judge. After all, he had the same sigil tattooed into across his back. The tattoo seemed to writhe, as if it were dozens of small serpents instead of ink. It brought pain, and that was more than welcomed. The experiences and truths revealed to the Legion on the World of Immortal Sorrows had greatly enlightened them, bringing unknown avenues of sensation to their attention.

Following the void battle via the vox, he heard the mortal Shipmaster order a light broadside to silence the _Call_ 's guns. His strike cruiser, the _Untamed_ , shuddered as it fired. Timur could imagine its sister ships repeating the act.

Over the company channel, he hissed his orders. "Board the ship; take the engine room, hangar bays, and bridge. Kill the crew." A thought struck him. "Enjoy yourselves once victory is secured." His brethren did not whoop like the Fenrisian barbarians but there was a guttural hunger that grunted over the vox.

"My lord Khan, deploying in thirty seconds," came the silky voice of the Shipmaster. The said non-transhuman was surgically entombed onto his throne, his voice and physical appearance all undergoing intensive surgeries to refine his features and make him more appealing to Slaanesh. Timur clicked the vox in response. Why would he, a son of a demigod, verbally acknowledge such lowborn rabble? Preposterous.

The seconds passed slowly, oh so slowly. Another battle-brother took off his helm, his face covered in small scars. He smiled, revealing sharp teeth. He pulled out his combat blade and began cutting into his gums, humming as he did so. Blood and acidic spit dribbled down his chin. Another began popping his shoulder in and out of place. The air began to fill with intoxicating pheromones, a combination of herbs native to Chogoris burned as pre-battle incense and lab-created nasal delicacies. Amazing how science and the warp could combine the smell of powdered bone with the alluring reek of spilled intestines. It was truly impressive how far they had come since joining Fulgrim.

"Five… four… three… two… one. Launch."

The boarding torpedo ejected violently from the Untamed, dozens others following it from across the squadron. The distance had been closed and the pods only had to travel less than fifty kilometres. Trajectory had been easy to calculate as the _Raven's Call_ limped away in a pitiful attempt-

The Shipmaster's orders became more clipped and worried. The battle-barge had turned. It realised it could not escape and meant to fight the strike cruisers head on. Timur felt his blood rush in his veins. Yes. Fight. Fight!

Despite the battle-barge was turning, the on-board machine-spirit compensated, bringing Timur's pod close to its original destination.

"Helms on, check weapons." The mantra was more by reflex than anything. All did so but the Astartes with the blade in his mouth. He had continued cutting into the gums, his eyes rolled upwards in ecstasy. The legionnaire was breathing hard, enriched blood misting in the air. Timur took a deep breath, disappointed that his helm filtered most of it out. The legionnaire began to cut into his tongue, blood now covering his neck armour and dripping down onto his chestplate.

"Ugghh, ugghh," the scrape of metal on enamel screeched out, a symphony of a dental orchestra.

The torpedo neared the ship and… lodged into it, its sharp rotary blades cutting deep into the ship's hull and forcing its way into the _Call_ 's innards. The sudden jarring caused the legionnaire to cut his tongue off, it flapping the floor. Rather than being enraged, the legionnaire laughed, his blood-filled mouth making the sound become quite exquisite. The torpedo's cutters dulled as they broke through into an outer corridor. It was far enough. The latch exploded off with such force as to dent the wall across from it. The ten legionnaires emerged, all but one with helms donned. A squad of ship armsmen rounded the corridor and raised their shotguns. The White Scars eschewed their bolters and rushed in for the kill. First blood should be dealt personally, not from afar. The mortals fired, pumped, fired, pumped and fired again, the buckshot pellets scratching the ivory, red and gold livery but not much else.

Timur brought down his tulwar power sword into the nearest mortal, blood hissing as it came into contact with the sword's power field. His brothers carried chainswords, exalting in the carnage. The viscera that splashed onto Timur's helmet made him want to take it off and inhale the coppery fragrance and taste it. But he did not. He would not lose himself to the Thrill.

The legionnaires made quick work of the armsmen. At the end of the hallway, Timur turned to look back at the massacre and noticed a figure in power armour had collapsed onto the floor. It was the legionnaire who disregarded head gear and had taken several shotgun shells to the face. Timur laughed a rich laugh, genuinely amused. He walked over to the fallen battle-brother. The legionnaire moved slightly, blood gushing from his ghastly wounds.

He knelt down and rubbed his gauntlet over the shredded remnants of a skull, petting the dying Astartes. "Such beauty," he whispered. "Such an experience. I envy you."

The White Scar wheezed and died. Timur stood up, suddenly angry. "Idiot! Killed by mortals, you fool!" He kicked the corpse's shredded skull several times, sending brain matter to cover the corridor wall and his boot. As he did so, he marked the location for an Apothecary to retrieve the gene-seed.

Shrugging off his annoyance, Timur re-joined his brothers and they made their way deeper into the ship. Passing dead crew, some thrown haphazardly by the void battle earlier while the rest were obviously killed by other Fifth Legion squads, they advanced quickly to their objective. They saw no black armoured Ravens, which was odd. Even with the slaughter in Al-toi, the battle-barge should have carried several squads worth, if not more. Several Raven detachments were found elsewhere, notably the engine room and armoury, but they were few and far between.

At an intersection they met up with two squads of White Scars, their war-plate drenched in gore. Timur led the way towards the bridge. As they neared the found a Raven, his arms and legs had been cut off, throat sliced open again and again, just shallow enough to allow healing but deep enough to allow some blood to seep out. A multitude of small scars revealed this. The pale cheeks had been cut, making the mouth unable to close. It made the legionnaire look like he was either perpetually smiling or screaming. Such art, he thought.

The three squads moved forward, near the bridge's primary access corridor, when they found White Scar corpses, two squads worth, but only six Ravens littered the ground alongside Timur's brethren. The corridor was elongated, with the glow-globes far above deactivated, likely due to a power surge. Moving forward, wary of what lay in front of him, he paused. Looking upwards he saw only pitch blackness. His auto-senses switched to night vision and he saw… shapes there. Shapes eerily reminiscent of Astartes-

The shapes fell, revealing seventeen Ravens.

"Above, above!" Timur yelled, using his tulwar to cut through the chest of a falling Raven. He dodged the fresh corpse, side-stepping and shoving the sword into the back of a Raven who was facing off against a Scar. Hiding in the ceiling's ribbed recesses, waiting for an ambush opportunity? Smart little birds the sons of Corax were.

A Scar fell, his chest ripped open with a chainaxe, another Scar impaled by a power spear, and two more riddled with bolts. A glancing shot hit Timur in the head. Ripping off his ruined helm, he threw it to the ground and took a deep, long breath. The sulphur of bolts being fired, the reek of ozone from power weapons, the smell of promethium from chain weapons, the rich coppery tang of Astartes blood. All assaulted his senses and he embraced them, letting the Thrill fill him.

When he focused on the battle again, he felt that everyone moved a fraction slower than they did before. Or was it that he was just fractionally faster?

"For Slaanesh and the Khagan!" he yelled, causing one Raven to flinch. He thrusted his tulwar through a ruby red eye lense, killing the legionnaire instantly. Retrieving it, he blocked a chainsword swing, the metal teeth snapping off in contact with his sword's power field. Pushing against the Raven, he ducked low and inserted the tulwar into the Astartes chest and lifted him up, causing gravity to pull the loyalist down. The Space Marine's blood fell into Timur's open mouth and he roared in victory. H was cut off as the Raven attempted to enclose his hands around Timur's throat. Instead, he pulled out his bolt pistol and fired point blank into the Mark V Corvus power armour's beaked helm.

Timur closed his eyes in bliss and he threw down the Astartes, his sword still lodged in it. He roared his victory and his brothers echoed it. Opening his eyes, he saw all the Ravens but two were killed. Those heavily wounded two were dragged to the side where three Scars prepared their tools of torture. The survivors of the Scars, numbering seven in total, gathered weapons and ammunition from the ground, and put bolts into all the fallen loyalists' skulls, just to be sure. Timur pulled his sword free from the Raven's chest cavity.

The Khan of the Silver Crescent made his way to the bridge, where a hastily crafted defence would attempt to keep him out. But they would fail. All who faced the Khagan and his Scars would fail.

* * *

 **Sons of the Forge**

The storm-filled atmosphere buffeted the eight Thunderhawk dropships as they descended. Coloured in Salamander green, black and gold, the ships carried just over a hundred Eighteenth Legion Astartes. One hundred and eight legionnaires to be exact; all that was left of the Thirty-Fourth Company. Once, the Thirty-Fourth counted six hundred warriors in its ranks not two years ago. But the tragedies of the Dropsite Massacre and the battles that followed further hurt the XVIII.

Xa'ven, Captain of the Thirty-Fourth, had been at Bellanor IV, he fought during the Massacre, ending with the Exodus. He had gone to Terra with a heavy heart, incorrectly thinking the unresponsive Vulkan was dead. But he was not. Vulkan lives. How his primarch returned from the dead was mystery to all but a few, and though he enjoyed the Drake Lord's favour, he was not in that select group. He didn't need to be. His father returning was more than enough.

After being healed and recovered, Vulkan left for Nocturne to rebuild the mauled XVIII. Fourteen thousand Salamanders made it off Bellanor, and most survived to reach their homeworld. There, his primarch had ordained that to fight against the traitors in open combat like the Iron Warriors and Blood Angels were doing would be impossible for them, as that would lead to potential disastrous losses. But nor did they have the fleet elements to perform hit and run tactics like the Raven Guard and Space Wolves.

As a sort of compromise, the bulk of the Salamanders took up defensive responsibilities on worlds deemed crucial to the war effort within quick reach of Nocturne. The important locales were strategic worlds where warp routes were swift and easy to navigate, to worlds with large populations that could be swayed to the Arch-Betrayer, to even several nearby Forge Worlds. The few thousand that were not needed for such duties become rapid response units, going from star system to star system skirmishing with traitor fleet elements, usually Traitor Army, but occasionally some Traitor Legion contingents. Only light vessels were used in these engagements, the capital ships kept in Nocturne to safeguard their homeworld and to act as a heavy-hitting fleet reserve if need be. As a result, there was a pocket of stability and peace in the region of the Ultima Segmentum, centred on the Salamander homeworld.

Xa'ven's company had been returning to Nocturne for resupply when his ship's astropath had alerted him to a disturbing warp signature emanating from a nearby planet. The planet, called QueVonn, was a Storm World. Wracked by incessant hurricanes and endless rain, the planet's population lived inside the few mountains that dotted across the surface. With a population in the low millions, it would have been all but ignored by both sides if not for the oddly strong signature.

Contact with the world was attempted but either the QueVonn astropaths could not receive their hails, or were ignoring them. Not uncommon as hundreds of worlds, doubtlessly more, had chosen to ignore the galactic civil war, intent on enduring the rebellion as safely as possible by becoming if not an outright independent Secessionist, then at least stubbornly neutral.

Xa'ven did not agree with that view, but he understood it. It was very human of them to be afraid, to fear change, to want to avoid the bloodletting that had consumed the stars for just over two years.

It was either those options, or that QueVonn had been attacked and their astropaths silenced. After several days of warp travel, the Thirty-Fourth arrived to the Dasis System and entered QueVonn's high orbit within hours. Further attempts to hail the astropaths were met with only silence. That, and wreckage from intra-system freighters and an unknown Legion warship, seemingly rammed into one another, convinced the Salamander captain something was amiss. After a scan of the planet, they noticed there was no vox communication or orbital traffic. None whatsoever. Fearing for the natives' safety, Xa'ven had ordered his company to the capital city, Uritoun.

Those events had led him here, aboard a filled Thunderhawk, soaring through the pelting rain and powerful winds.

"Landing in five minutes," the pilot said. Xa'ven, standing behind him, patted the legionnaire on the shoulder in acknowledgement. He turned and made way to the passenger compartment. Nineteen Salamanders rose from their shock seats, gripping weapons of all kinds in one hand, while most carried a combat shield in the other. He opened a channel with the other Thunderhawks, knowing they would hear him despite the weather.

"Our mission priority is to find and secure any Imperial civilians. If the locals are Secessionist and fire upon us, respond in kind. If they are Fulgrimian supporters, kill without mercy."

Several nodded at that. The Salamanders might be the most humane out of all the Legiones Astartes, but it did what was necessary to preserve the Imperium. The rabble that followed Fulgrim were too far gone to be saved anyway; best to put them down as if they were a sickened grox.

"Squads Four, secure the control tower. Squad Five, secure the vox arrays. Squad Six, Seven and Eight, head towards the lower levels, check for civilians. Squads One and Two come with me to the governor's residence. Squad Three, remain behind and guard the Thunderhawks. Understood?"

With confirmations all around, Xa'ven grabbed his bolter, pistol still mag-locked to his thigh, as was his small hammer. He moved to the closed side-door and waited. The Thunderhawk slowed, engines flaring to maintain its control, and set down on the landing pads that dotted the mountain's upper exterior.

The door slid open and immediately a wave of rain hit him, making _ping ping ping_ sounds against his armour. Xa'ven moved forward, weapon scanning the pad. Even with Mk IV auto-senses, he could not see more than a few metres in front of him. Blink-switching to thermal helped, his legionnaires a solid red and orange mass amidst the backwash of blue, grey and black.

"Switch to thermal." He waited several seconds for them to do so, still sweeping his rifle back and forth, back and forth. "Move out."

The squads covered each other as they advanced, eventually splitting up and heading to their objectives. Xa'ven and his two squads moved upwards through then mountain towards the centre-top of the city, schematics showing it as where the governor's office resided. The corridors and hab-blocks were cut directly out of the stone, the walls were smooth and the hab-blocks large enough for a family of six or so. The Salamanders passed gardens, which were showing signs of non-attendance, shops, markets, extracurricular locales, schools and more. QueVonn might be an ugly world outside the mountain, but inside it was quite beautiful.

After an hour of cautiously advancing skyward, they still had found no one. No bodies at least, but they found blood. Large puddles of dried blood stained many rooms and streets. A wall had a warning written on it in blood. 'HELP!' it said, bloody handprints all around. A child's doll lay there, unattended as if thrown or dropped in a rush. Its button eyes stared him down. Xa'ven catalogued all this, growing increasingly worried and suspicious but kept those thoughts to himself.

Approaching the governor's palace, by far smaller than most governors Xa'ven had seen, they entered the grounds. Bullet casings and las-scorch marks were evident all across the compound but still no bodies. Stacking up on either side of the front door, Xa'ven nodded. The legionnaires broke the splintering wood with a single servos-enhanced kick, sweeping as they moved in, securing positions. Xa'ven entered and saw main hall covered in gore, yet still no corpses. A noose extended from the staircase, almost as if someone attempted suicide. There was no body.

 _Where are they_ , he thought.

Ascending the staircase a wave of nausea swept over him. A quick look saw it had affected his men as well. The legionnaire captain had a sinking feeling what they would find inside. Moving into the bedroom suites, they found the source of their discomfort. Taking centre place in the main bedroom was a structure built out of bone, skulls on the outside and acting as pillars to raise it, and a bowl full of dried blood on the inside. It featured four sigils on the sides that hurt Xa'ven to look at. He did not know their meaning, other than that many Traitor Space Marines carried these symbols upon their person, but the fifth one he knew all too well. It was made of blackened bone with bits of gore flecked upon it. It was an eight pointed star, what the traitors called an Octed. That vile star flew side by side Fulgrim's Phoenix on many worlds. The horrid assemblage of organic materials was a shrine to what the traitors called gods.

"Burn it," he ordered, gesturing for a flamer equipped legionnaire to come forward to douse the shrine with promethium powered flames. A sound seemed to escape, a mournful, terrified wail. It sounded like people calling for help.

Xa'ven had his men secure the rest of the palace while he made his way to the governor's personal study. There he found an archaic six solid round revolver next to a pool of blood and a cogitator. He turned on the machine, a video file waiting to be played. Noting the time stamp, he saw the video was made over a month ago. He started it and learned all of what happened here.

Sitting there was a man, in his late sixties though it was hard to tell depending if he had received rejuvenating treatments. He was pudgy and going bald but when he spoke he held a timbre strength there.

"My name is Tern Gybz, Planetary Governor of QueVonn. I am going to tell you how my world died."

Xa'ven set down his bolter on the table and interlocked his hands together.

"It all started seven weeks ago, standard. A ship had emerged from the Mandeville point, an Astartes light cruiser. It was clearly damaged and in dire need of repairs. We did not have the resources necessary, so we offered them sanctuary until outside help arrived."

The governor took a hefty sip of a drink, likely amasec. He wiped his hand through his thinning hair.

"You must understand, we took no part in the war. We were unimportant enough to not have to choose. No resources to speak of, no strategic location or other military importance. We're a backwater. We chose to ignore all the rumours and news that reached us when the war began. Within two weeks of receiving hearsay and information of the Dropsite Massacre, our astropath choir of four committed suicide, cutting us off from all interstellar contact. There was no way to communicate with the rest of the Imperium, nor did we know who was on what side, just hearsay and unconfirmed reports. We were alone. We were content.

"Life continued as normal here. Babies were born, the elderly died, and we maintained our people with no outside assistance. But then… then _they_ came."

He downed the rest of the amasec, his hand shaking as he poured more, some spilling onto the desk.

"The light cruiser belonged to a Legion long respected in the Imperium. It wasn't the murderous Night Lords or the barbaric Space Wolves or White Scars. It was a civilised Legion, with a wise and cultured primarch. They were Word Bearers."

The pieces came together and Xa'ven grimly understood.

"There were not many of them, only forty-six, plus a couple hundred crew members that had survived whatever battle they escaped from. Their once grey armour was now coloured crimson, and it was horrifying. Covered in skulls, horns and other such fetishes and motifs, they were a sight to behold and be wary of. I was afraid then, but could not turn them away. We had ignorantly hoped that if we repaired their ship, then they would leave. We cannibalised our freighters, breaking them down for parts. It was economical suicide, but it was either that or have _them_ around for much longer. We worked hard for weeks, the Word Bearers and their serfs secluded themselves deep in the bowels of the city. When the light cruiser was somewhat repaired, at least enough for a brief warp jumps, we urged them to leave."

A haunted look overcame Gybz. "The leader of the legionnaires, a Chaplain Kolg, said he would show his appreciation. That's when the riots started. Thousands of my people had been corrupted by the Word Bearers sickening faith and took up violence against their neighbours. I ordered out freighters to ram the light cruiser, which they did and succeeded and mostly destroying it, but at a heavy cost. The constables, our small PDF, and my personal guard could not keep them contained for long. Street battles ensued, hundreds dying daily. The other cities began to experience similar uprisings, and soon blood became the currency of QueVonn. The bodies of the dead would be taken by the cultists, dragged into the bowels of the city, for what purpose I do not know. If I found out my sanity might snap, I suspect."

Gybz finished his drink, coughing slightly.

"They are at my palace doors. My soldiers are dead, my guards are dead, everyone is dead, dead, DEAD. Millions are dead now. Millions! But they won't take me alive. Oh, no, they won't. I die on my own terms."

Gybz pulled out the revolver, placed it on his temple, cocked and fired. The video ended there.

"Sergeant Helus," he called to Eighth Squad's commander. "What have you found down there?"

A pause. "My lord, you are going to want to see this."

Xa'ven picked up his bolter. "On my way."

When Xa'ven and his battle-brothers reached the others deep in Uritoun's lower levels, principally an area reserved for maintenance and storage, they found what could only be called a temple. But it was not one of peaceful worship in a stone structure as was typical on worlds discovered during the Great Crusade, but rather the site of countless murders constructed from bones and flesh. Thousands of brown coloured eyes greeted them, staring them down, dried out and cracking. Inside the arches were made from ribcages. Braziers hung from the ceiling, their bowls filled with blood and promethium as evident by the smell. The walls were made up of tens of thousands of corpses, stacked one atop another, their blood having acted as glue. It was beyond sickening.

The Thirty-Fourth's Librarian, Ralkaar, stumbled as he passed the temple's threshold. His breathing became laboured.

Xa'ven moved to him, resting a hand on his shoulder pad. "Brother?"

"I am… fine… captain. This place… it drains me being in it."

"We will hurry, then." Xa'ven moved forward, heading towards the pile of corpses that took centre stage. As he neared, he realised the bones were too small for adults. Children, then. Xa'ven grip tightened on his bolter. He would make the Word Bearers pay, this he swore.

A set of primitive steps of compressed flesh led to atop of the pile of children bodies. Ralkaar fell to his knee as he approached it. The crystals in his psychic hood flaring with white light.

"This is it," he coughed. "This is the warp signature. By the Emperor, it is foul."

"What is it?"

"If I am right, captain, this was the site of mass sacrifice that allowed tremendous warp energies to be harnessed."

"What for?"

"Well, with their ship destroyed by the freighters in orbit, the traitors needed a way off planet. The sacrifices allowed their… allies to open a gateway between here and another place."

"Can you track it?" he asked.

Ralkaar took a deep breath. "I can try." The Librarian moved to top of the pile, hands outstretched. Eldritch energy danced across his gauntlets, and his hood glowed bright enough for Xa'ven helm to automatically darken in response.

After several moments, the psychic energy faded and Ralkaar stepped hesitantly down onto the floor.

"Can you, Ralkaar?"

"Yes, my lord. I know where they went. The gateway created a link between here and the world they travelled to. It allowed me to pinpoint it, roughly at least."

Xa'ven nodded, patting Ralkaar on the shoulder. "Good job, brother." Xa'ven turned to the rest of his legionnaires. "Our journey home has been delayed. The crimes committed here cannot go unpunished. We will hunt these Word Bearers down and make sure they are never able to commit such horrendous actions ever again."

Every Salamander nodded or brought their clenched fist to chestplate in salute. They knew there would be risks but the death of QueVonn must be avenged. Xa'ven led the Salamnders back to their dropships and on the return trip to the strike cruiser _Forgefire_ , he vowed to kill every last traitor that had dared perform such horrors upon the innocent world of QueVonn.

* * *

 **The Perfect Bladesman**

The world of Tovkov burned beneath the boots of the Sons of Fulgrim. Lord Commander Lucius led the Thirteenth Millennial, nearly three thousand Astartes, with almost a hundred thousand Phoenix Army troopers in support. Tovkov's importance to the Imperium was in its vast manufactoria sectors. Barely an hour into the invasion, those vital industrial centres had already been captured. Now, Lucius led the assault to capture the beloved King of Tovkov's sprawling palace complex. The king, who was also the planetary governor, had barricaded himself in his throne room, and if he was captured alive, and forced to submit, then resistance would melt away. The industrial output of Tovkov was nowhere near that of a Forge World, but every little bit helped fuel the drive to Terra.

His command squad followed, killing their way through the royal guardsmen. Those men and women wore carapace armour, handled hellgun rifles expertly, and had scores of heavy turrets capable of piercing legionnaire war-plate. Their training wasn't too bad, for mortals anyway. Numbering in the thousands they thought to deny Lucius this victory.

They paid for that daring with their lives.

Lucius moved amongst dozens of guards, expertly driving his blade through them or sweeping it by, decapitating some and opening others' chests to the smoke filled air. His skill with the sword was legendary amongst the Legion, and though he did not yet have the galactic-wide acclaim of Sigismund, Abaddon, Sevatar, Raldoron, or even that arrogant Eidolon, his star was undoubtedly in the ascendance, and soon the entire Imperium would know of Lucius the Perfect Bladesman. Dodging stubber fire, parrying swords and spears, and dealing out death to foolish mortals, the Son of Fulgrim made his way to the throne room.

When the traitor legionnaires arrived to the iron door, one of Lucius' Space Marines fired a meltagun into the doorway, melting the metal, making it run down like butter on a too hot knife. Pushing through the weakened door was easy after that, the metal having been compromised by the superheated sub-atomic particles in the air.

The throne room was large, imitating an ancient Greko style with multiple columns and swirling marble floor work. Hundreds of people could fit in the throne room with ease to hear royal decrees, submit noble complaints, and for important ceremonies. What stood before Lucius, however, was surprising. The king was thin, looking sickly pale. Large ruby and gold rings were on every finger, his crown of a simply gold band with four jewels of different colours setting upon his grey hair. The king coughed, blood flicking from his lips. A silk handkerchief was brought before the king's mouth by a bony hand. He coughed into it several times, the cough wet and obviously painful.

Lucius was amazed. This was the king so beloved by Tovkov's hundreds of millions? The people followed this weak example of an inferior, outdated form of Mankind, despite his clear inadequacies? Pathetic. The Phoenician was right, only primarchs and their transhuman progeny had the right and strength to rule.

But that was not the most surprising thing to confront Lucius in the throne room. No, that would be the three Astartes standing behind the king's throne. They wore purple and gold armour, almost a mirror copy to Lucius' own. But instead of having the Chemosian Phoenix on their chestplate, these legionnaires still proudly wore the Aquila. Oddly enough, their helms, which were mag-locked to their waists, were painted a deep mournful black.

He recognised the three from when the Third Legion had been called the Emperor's Children. Dax, Queos, and Rafae, Palatine Blades, and damn skilled ones too. The Sons of Fulgrim raised their bolters but Lucius gestured for them to be lowered. He stepped forward, leaving the command squad to set up position at the entrance. Lucius stopped fifty paces away, sword resting on his shoulder, nonchalant. The three Children kept their blades firmly in their scabbards.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here? Children of the Emperor? Didn't think any of you were still alive."

Dax, the most senior, shrugged. "You would be surprised, Lucius. Not all died at the Feast."

"Pity that. When our father learns that sons of his still bear that damned double eagle, he'll be furious."

"Your father, not ours. He broke that bond a year ago. Our only true father was and forever will be the Emperor."

Lucius snorted.

"What happened to your face?" asked Queos. "Not as pretty as you once were."

The three Palatines chuckled at that. Lucius scowled, hand brushing against his face. Despite the gauntlet, it seemed he could feel the dozens of scars that now covered his face, hundreds more across his body.

"These are my victories in personal combat."

"You wish to add three more to that?" Dax said.

"Of course," the lord commander said hungrily, switching the sword from his shoulder to an offensive stance.

"Very well, then." The three Children donned their black painted helms, and pulled their swords from their scabbards, activating power fields. Dax looked to the king. "May you find eternal peace by His side. The Emperor protects, comrade." The king nodded resolutely. A quick slash saw the king's throat open, blood pouring out. The king sighed one last time and closed his eyes. A quick, painless death.

"Why?" asked Lucius, tossing his helmet to the floor, skidding to a halt against a column. It would only get in the way.

"Giving him mercy would prevent you from using a sickened old man as a puppet. And his citizens will be furious that their beloved king died, leading to a guerrilla movement we made sure will spring up and persist for a long, long time, hampering all future operations on this world." The three loyalist Palatines laughed again, this time a deeper pitch due to their external speakers.

Lucius spat, annoyed. They were right. The Tovkovans' love for their king would see them enraged that he died. A guerrilla movement would plague this world. The War Commander would not be pleased. Well, no matter. If he couldn't deliver the primarch the forced submission of a king, then he could deliver three heads of loyal Children of the Emperor. It may suffice.

The loyalists stepped down from the throne's dais, walking in sync, swords upraised before them.

"Know this, Son of Fulgrim," intoned Dax. "We die this day but know in our hearts that the Imperium will emerge triumphant and the War Commander's will burn in the fires of retribution."

"Enough talk, time to die."

Lucius surged forward, aiming for Dax. The Palatine brought his blade up to block, attempting to hold Lucius' attention as Rafae and Queos brought their swords in for the kill. But Lucius's moniker was not merely a boast, but a statement of fact. He sidestepped Rafae's sword and twisted under Queos'. Pulling out a dagger, he plunged it into the opening that Queos' armpit represented, shoving the blade deep to puncture one heart and both primary lungs. As the Palatine coughed, reddish-pink mist escaping his helm's grille, Lucius swung around, standing behind the legionnaire. He smiled as he stabbed downwards with his sword through the upper back of Queos, violently emerging from the other side, gore pouring out. He attempted to pull his sword free but the dying Queos had grasped the blade's length, holding it firm. The other two loyalists rushed him.

Cursing, Lucius let go of his pommel, kicking the defiant legionnaire to the ground. Rafae and Dax came at him in a pincer movement. Their actions and synchronisations spoke of long familiarity and trust. Lucius would not die here, not today. He was a favoured of Fulgrim, a chosen disciple of the gods. He would NOT die here. He raised his right arm to block, the sword connecting with the vambrace. It cut clean through but the move surprised Rafae. He slammed his left fist into the Palatine's head, denting the armour. As Rafae stumbled, Lucius ducked Dax's thrust. He spun from Dax and tackled Rafae. Taking the combat blade from Rafae's hip, he jammed it through the Palatine's neck seal and flesh, piercing the brain.

Rolling, he dodged Dax's sword, grabbing Rafae's sword. Now on his feet, he turned to Dax. His right arm was severed halfway along his forearm. But as Dax watched, Lucius' bloodied flesh began steaming unnaturally. And from that steam burst a new half of a forearm and hand. The flesh was arterial red and still heavily venting off steam consistently.

"What are you?" asked Dax, voice showing unease as he took a purely defensive stance.

Lucius smiled a predator's grin. "The future." He readied Rafae's blade and charged Dax.

The contest was easily won and Dax's corpse cooled on the throne room's swirled marble. Lucius picked up his metal encased severed arm. Looking inside, he saw only ash. Grinning, he tossed the vambrace to the ground. His bared forearm and hand felt oddly exposed without armour but he would get a replacement when he returned to the battle-barge. His arm's flesh was losing its regrown red colour, going back to its default pale. He retrieved his dagger and sword from Queos' body. Returning the power sword to its scabbard, he used his dagger and cut deeply on his newly grown wrist. The wound would heal, but not before leaving three small scars.

Turning to the loyalist corpses, he removed their head gear and decapitated them, carrying them by their hair. It would be a fine gift for the War Commander. The war on Tovkov was dying down, though he knew there would be a simmering rebellion for months, if not longer, due to the king's death. But Lucius would take this in stride and come out on top of it. He always did, no matter the barriers set against him.

* * *

 **Man of Two Fates**

Sergeant Xander Jericho waved a fire-team forward. After they secured the next position, he and his team moved on.

Their mission, and the mission of close to a hundred Imperial Fists, with another hundred in reserve, was to secure the derelict human destroyer that had warped to Sol eighteen hours ago. Its ident-code and registration were unknown to Imperial records, meaning it was constructed at a black site or more recently in a traitor shipyard. It was an unknown class of warship, far smaller than most destroyers, almost a frigate in size but bearing a destroyer sized arsenal. No video or audio transmission came from the ship, nothing. Only a distress beacon relaying standard Imperial codes was sent out, and the Defenders of Terra had heard it.

The squadron of four Seventh Legion destroyers, spearheaded by a light cruiser, cautiously approached, cannons of various types locked on and torpedoes in their tubes, primed.

It had been only a few weeks since the Battle of Pluto, and elements of the Alpha Legion and their insidious network of operatives were still being discovered in remote areas of Sol. The V squadron had been on patrol when they detected the ship coasting in-system, plasma engines cold, weapon turrets and void shield generators offline, and no response to hails.

Jericho and his brethren boarded the ship and found it as empty as it appeared from the outside. No gravity and no power aside from air recyclers, allowing what little air remained to be breathed in again and again, thinning it more every time. They were observant as they advanced, making sure no ambushes were laid in wait. They knew the tactics favoured by the Night Lords, hiding in the recesses of darkness, or the tactics of the Alpha Legion, or the Materium-defying daemons, and more.

"Deck Fourteen clear, moving to Deck Fifteen"

"Copy, Jericho," said Captain Decius Tardin, who advanced elsewhere on the ship. The layout was quite different than standard Imperial layouts, designed to confuse and, apparently, allowing for the entire ship to be explosively voided of air through multiple void hatches. Tardin had been heading to where the bridge would have been in most other ships, but instead found himself in an empty cargo room. "Move with caution. Something here doesn't feel right."

"Yes, sir."

Jericho and nine battle-brothers moved up to Deck Fifteen and continued their search for answers. It was eerie how silent the ship was. No sign of a struggle, nor sign of anything. No crew, no legionnaire presence aside from the Fists.

At the end of the corridor, Jericho discovered what he hoped was the bridge. The sealed doors were pried open and they entered, covering each other. What they found was disconcerting. Nearly forty dead on what was clearly the bridge, all clad in unknown onyx coloured armour. All had been killed by a single bolt round to the brain, and judging by the angle of the bolters scattered about, they had committed mass suicide. But what led to this? Frozen blobs of blood hovered in the air, undisturbed. The lack of power had made the ship cold as an Inwitian winter in the tundra wastes.

The large legionnaire sitting on the throne did not move, but nor did he have any visible wounds. Moving forward, Jericho checked for any other wound and found none. Putting his hand on the helm, he began to lift… only to see the eye lenses flicker on, but not the traditional red, blue or green, but rather a very dark grey colour, seemingly blending in with the rest of the war-plate.

Jericho stepped back, bolter raised. His squad refocused their bolters on the throne-sitting Astartes. The legionnaire reached up to his helmet, his movements lethargic, and released the clasps, removing his helmet, revealing a face none of the Imperial Fists had ever expected to see.

"Impossible," said Jericho in shock, resisting the urge to fire his gun. "You're dead."

The enthroned figure spoke then, his voice clearly unused for many months due to its scratchiness.

"Life, I've found, is full of twists and surprises, betrayals and revelations. Now," he said, pushing himself steadily from the command throne, "Take me to Rogal and Horus. I have much to explain to them."

* * *

 **AUTHOR's NOTE:** The next chapter will be the Night Lords Index but it will be a while. They are a beloved Legion so I want to get them right. If you liked this chapter, or are a fan of the timeline in general, please leave a comment and favorite the story for future updates. Thanks for the support everyone.


	23. Night Lords

**Night Lords – Masters of Terror**

" _Good deeds are blissfully forgotten, horrible actions are painfully remembered."_

 _-_ unknown Night Lord, circa late M30.

 **Origins-**

When the Age of Strife began, chaos swept through the galaxy. A host of calamities struck Mankind within the space of less than a thousand years. In early M23, warp travel started to become more and more dangerous to traverse, with nearly a quarter of all ships venturing into it lost to the tides of the Immaterium. Subsequently, the sudden appearance of psykers across Mankind's domains saw to the rise of daemonic possessions. Not long after, the Men of Iron rose up against their human masters. These sentient machines wrought devastation on the fragile human empires of the time, with whole sectors engulfed by forbidden archeotech such as nanotechnology and other, far more frightening tech-horrors. The war lasted centuries, trillions dying as Mankind struggled to fight their own creation. Eventually the Men of Iron were defeated, but the victory was hollow and short lived. The spreading of the psyker mutation through the human genome worsened, causing thousands of worlds to be consumed by aetheric warp-fire and daemonic hordes. To make matters worse, the Immaterium's storms became increasingly difficult to navigate as the years stretched onwards and by late M23, they were impassable. The human empires that had survived the Cybernetic Revolt quickly collapsed as contact between star systems became effectively severed. With trade now impossible, countless worlds broke down into anarchy and lawlessness. Many worlds sought to curb this with brutal dictatorial regimes, while some never established any form of law and order. These planets subsequently died off in wars that saw the use of atomic warheads and battle-trained psykers. More trillions died and thousands more worlds became inhabitable husks.

On the edge of known space, in the extreme galactic northeast of the Ultima Segmentum resided a world of darkness within what is known as the Ghoul Stars, sometimes chronicled as the Ghost Stars. This in itself was not unusual, for the worlds that littered this area of space typically orbited dying stars. But this world, on the southwestern edge of the Ghoul Stars, was Nostramo. Nostramo was a Hive World whose only exports during the Dark Age of Technology and early Age of Strife had been adamantium ore and people. The adamantium for starship construction and the people to man those ships and to fight in the increasingly amount of wars that plagued humanity during the Age of Strife's early centuries.

Life on the world, before the storms cut it off from other star systems, was stable. The wealth made thanks due to its consistent exports allowed the streets to be lit, pushing back the eternal darkness. Education and law were impeccable, and its crime occurrence was one of the lowest of any human world in the Ghoul Stars. But then Old Night arrived and everything collapsed seemingly overnight. As trade faltered, food shortages became rampant alongside overpopulation. Subsequently, crime rate rose explosively, overwhelming the judicial services. Riots swept through the hundreds of cities on the planet, with outright warfare between the struggling governments and starving masses becoming a frequent event. Within a year, the planetary government had devolved into squabbling city nobles working hand in hand with powerful gang warlords.

As the situation deteriorated, the five largest hive cities banded together into an alliance. Using what little military technology and soldiers left on the planet, as well as deploying hired gang muscle by the tens of thousands, the five cities raided and took everything of value from the other, weaker cities over the course of several years, acting akin to robbers stealing from the defenceless. With no power, no food, no clean water, and no end in sight to the injustices that hung over the planet, these smaller cities died off, leaving them inhabited only by rats and gnawed bones.

The alliance between the five cities, named Nostramo Primus through Quintus, soon fell apart, but not before they had stabilised their cities to a form of self-sufficiency. Though true government for all became a thing of the past, rich aristocrats dominated the upper hive while in the lower hives gang lords ruled with bloodied iron fists. Though the nobles claimed to be above the gang lords, they were in fact far worse. Funding and arming the gangs caused incessant street warfare in the lower hives, with the impoverished innocents caught in the middle suffering the worst. The unceasing gang wars and high suicide rate were the only things keeping the population in check, establishing a tedious balance of stability. By the time of M30, Nostramo had long forgotten its once proud and rich history. Now, it was a cesspool of crime and injustice.

This was to be the world the Emperor's Eight Son landed upon. Landing in the graveyard industrial-wastes between the cities, the Eighth Primarch fought the deadly predators that assailed him.

 _He lay quiet on the slab of coarse rock, breathing gently. The two noc-sabres moved forward to attack. Here in the wastes, food was ever scarce, and despite his lean physique, it was a feast for the half-starving predators. The sky was overcast, not by thunderclouds, but by unchecked industrial pollutants and chemicals._ How do I know this? What am I?

 _He felt the cranial pressure building up behind his eyes. It was the tell-tale sign of another waking nightmare incoming, his fourth since awakening and leaving his life-pod a month ago._

" _No…" he hissed, teeth clenched to near-breaking, spittle flying out from the strain. "Not now." His eyes glazed over and darkness consumed everything._

 _He saw a city of death tearing itself apart, starving innocents killing their own children to consume uncorrupted flesh, richly dressed and plump pale figures dining in rooms made alight by purple glow-globes. He saw uncounted thousands hanging themselves to escape it all. Machinery that had not stopped churning for centuries greased by recycled oils and freshly poured blood of its indentured workers. The world was sick, it volatile heart pumping treasured ore to be mined by greed-driven monsters in human skin._

 _He saw a golden double-headed eagle part the pollutant-clouds, bringing with it soldiers armed with large weapons and thick armour. He saw the same eagle dragging itself across a star-speckled floor, crawling to a golden throne bathed in multi-coloured energies. It bled from eight ghastly wounds and its eyes locked onto him._

" _You failed me. You betrayed me," it condemned._

 _Before he could ask who or why, the vision changed to show a world of shadow and terrors. A pathway made of smelted down bone ash led to a palace of haunting nightmares. Flanking it were monsters in armour, curved horns, flayed skin, and dangling skulls held by iron wire adorning them. They were the same that had accompanied the golden eagle, but were now different. Worse. More vile. They looked to him and knelt, soft white powder rising from the motion._

 _They are my sons, he concluded. These torturers, murderers, and sadists are my spawn. Then I failed. Who did I fail? What did I fail? Or rather, is this success? He stumbled to the ground and screamed. Grabbing his hair, he tore fistfuls out, screaming all the time. The shadowed heavens parted and four shades came to him. One was crimson and reeked of blood, another was putrid green and smelled like rotting flesh, the third was purple-pink and emitted intoxicating perfumes, while the final was blue and its musk beheld lies and secrets. They swirled around him, reaching out but pulling away their claws at the last moment._

" _Your future…" hinted the perfumed wraith._

" _Your destiny…" stated the blue wraith._

" _Betrayed by an uncaring father…" grated the crimson wraith._

" _Shunned by unforgiving brothers…" coughed the putrid green wraith._

" _All alone, all alone, all, alone," they chorused as one._

" _No!" he yelled, the wraiths scurrying away, chaotic laughter rippling through the dream._

" _I am not…" his breath was ragged, painful, "Alone."_

 _He came to from the dreams, foul blood dripping from his mouth. He blinked and looked down, seeing the two noc-sabre predators' dead, their bodies ripped open by him. He blinked again, set his jaw, then continued to eat the two beasts. He would need the strength for he had a long way to travel. He would head north, knowing he would find a sprawling metropolis there. The nightmare's content haunted him as he ate raw flesh and drank warm blood._

 _He was becoming more and more confident that what he saw had not come to pass, but will._ How to change it? Can I even do that? _The whispers of the wind held no answers._

The primarch, after months of roaming the wastelands, arrived to the massive city that was Nostramo Quintus. Archival researchers from the Inquisition's Ordo Historia delved into warded and sealed documents detailing the Eighth Son's arrival to a city steeped in the refuse of its own sins. The first night there, he witnessed the senseless murder of a woman and child. Feeling something within him churn at seeing this, the primarch killed the murderers, casting their desecrated corpses into a main throughway.

It did not take long for the primarch's actions to be noted by the Nostraman elite. One by one underhive warlords and their gangs were wiped out, their bodies flayed and left in public squares and markets as a warning to injustice. It was these criminals who first uttered the infamous moniker of the Eighth Primarch that would soon sweep the galaxy, bringing fear. They called him Night Haunter. The primarch, knowing that true justice would never be enacted if the upper hive elite remained, attacked their stronghold on the one year anniversary of his arrival to the city. He brought justice, but above all he brought death.

 _Acidic rain pattered against his cloak, hissing as it dripped downwards, falling thousands of metres below to the mid hive. What skin of his that was bare to the elements didn't even register the damage, healing as soon as it occurred. Even then it only reddened the skin, and not burning it off as it would have to other humans. But he was not just a human, but something far greater, far more… terrible._

 _Arriving to the Nostramo Quintus a year ago, he witnessed his first murder within hours and quickly saw that it was not an oddity, but the norm. Millions had died since then, so many, so very many. The people of this city needed justice and order, but their leaders only dealt in money and death, uncaring of those that scraped and struggled to see another day cycle. If the pampered aristocrats could not guarantee stability, then a monster would have to._

 _Rising from the crouched posture, hand atop the ceramite gargoyle that stood beside him, he looked down the spire, seeing the rich sectors of Nostramo Quintus shine with the purple and red lights that dominated there. The central spire, the beating heart of corruption, held a massive gala for the city elite. It was a fortress, with gun turrets, thousands of guards and more within its walls. But every fortress had a weakness. Half-understood electronic systems, machine-spirits and more protected the bluebloods within. But so much depended on electricity…_

 _Raising his other hand, a detonator clutched within, he pressed down on the red rune. Two kilometres away, an equally fortified complex that housed the upper hive's energy generators flickered and died, exploding as their small plasma cores overloaded. The sky came alight briefly with the blue and white of plasma fire. Undoubtedly thousands would go blind, and hundreds of thousands would die from the shortage. An electromagnetic pulse swept through the city. Railcars tumbled from mag-rails; air cars caught in the shockwave shook then fell as all on-board power shorted out. Many crashed into spires and other imposing buildings. Many more fell atop the hab-blocks where the city's middle class dwelt. Already fires were spreading. Subsequent backup generator stations throughout the city also exploded. He was very thorough in his destruction. So many deaths, he thought, so much necessity._

 _Tell a man to stop being a criminal, and he may or may not listen, and even then it would likely be temporary. Kill a man to act as an example to others was a far more efficient way of ensuring compliance. Let them fear what haunted them. Only through fear could order be kept._

 _The palace complex before him suffered less than the rest of the city, but even its outer defence grid shut down momentarily, its secondary generators cycling awake. He had calculated that it would last approximately one minute until power was restored. Plenty of time to bypass the outer security. He pushed off from the spire, letting gravity and a custom-made glider carry him to the palace. Bypassing metre thick walls, he aimed for a balcony not too far from the spire's centre._

 _Two mortals were on an overhead protected balcony, looking out at the burning city as he let go from the glider and fell among them. The man and woman, obviously a couple based off smeared lipstick on his collar and her hair falling from its carefully crafted braid, backed away startled. The man intersected himself between him and the woman. A brave one, that._

" _You- you're him aren't you." It wasn't a question but a statement. "The Night Haunter."_

 _He looked at them, black beady eyes making the two step further back in fear. Her mouth quivered, and he sweated rivulets down his temples and cheeks. Both shook uncontrollably. "I am what I need to be." He reached over, grasping the mortal's waist, whose body was small and weak compared to his. Pulling the man forward, sharp teeth bit into the man's throat, tearing it out. The Night Haunter tossed the corpse to the floor. For the woman, who was screaming, he grasped her by the folds of her dress and pushed her outside the balcony's protected overhead. Acidic rain ate away at her and she screamed, thrashing about. Closing his eyes, the screaming could almost be interpreted as music. He was horrified at what he did but it brought such… contentment to him._

 _Only moments passed until her thrashing stopped. Looking at her, layers of skin burned away, he reflected on their fragility. How could these creatures be rulers? They were nothing more than hindrances to stability. He let go of the dead woman, the body falling far below. Turning, he went to the balcony's doorway, opening as he approached. Now was the time for order to begin. Donning on his sharpened claw-glove and inspecting his longsword, heavy enough to where only he could wield it with any ease, he smiled, imagining the blood that would soon coat it. The sound of footsteps reached his ears long before he saw anyone._

 _Guards, hearing the commotion on the balcony, arrived in force. The corridor was pitch-black, but they wore prey-sight goggles, their autoguns sweeping the area. But they found nothing, for he was above them. Dropping down among the forty or so heavily armed soldiers, justice was dealt swiftly. Cutting down the chaff was easy. Their lifeblood and innards soon coated the hallway._

 _He ran to the gala hall, killing all who defied him. A squadron of guards, eviscerated. Three squadrons protecting a lone noble, all killed with the noble drenched in gore, left alive to whimper, her mind broken by the trauma. More and more he swept through the spire, performing horrors to instil fear. Fear would allow them to be moulded into a more obedient species._

 _After what must have been half an hour, the Night Haunter emerged into the antechamber of the gala hall. Scores of guards with shields surrounded him, with dozens more hefting archaic three metre long shock-stakes. As they encircled him, dozens more raised autoguns and light stubbers._

 _Flexing the claw-glove and angling the sword, he began to kill and it was glorious. Slashed throats, headless bodies, ruptured innards and more were all that was left when he finished. The entryway to the gala was clear. Pushing the heavy doors open, he looked at the assembled nobles. They backed away from the Night Haunter, frightened. A few stumbled as they withdrew. Some began to cry. One man brought out a personal pistol and a single loud crack painted a hung tapestry with his grey matter._

 _The Night Haunter saw no threat from them. He saw only the pampered and the protected having to face their vile decisions for the first time. Slowly closing the door, inserting the sword between the handles to lock it, he turned around to address them._

" _If you are going to be a monster, you must be an effective one. I have come for you."_

After slaughtering the assembled Quintus nobility, the Night Haunter was crowned by the surviving nobles, becoming the first king of the city. After securing Quintus, the primarch turned his attention to the other four cities. One by one they fell under his control, tens of thousands killed by his hand alone on the path to peace. Crime rate plummeted to near-zero, the harsh laws put in place carried out by the primarch and his selected subordinates, called the Nightsworn, who acted in their monarch's name. These men and women would be judge, jury and executioner, and would serve the Night Haunter loyally.

Just a few years after landing on Nostramo, industry and food production had grown more efficient and the lives of the citizens had improved. The Night Haunter was seen as unforgiving and harsh, but also as fair and beneficial to the planet and its people. For the first time in uncounted centuries, it was safe to walk alone in the streets. The loss of freedoms and vices was seen as a small price to pay for such safety. Nostramo, though not having set its eyes on the stars hidden behind its pollutant clouds, began to reclaim the majesty that once inhabited it, though now that nobility was now enforced through fear.

Nonetheless, it was progress for a world that had been heading towards total self-destruction. It was to this cleansed and orderly world that the Master of Mankind arrived to, intent on reclaiming His son.

 _It burned. It all burned. His mind was afire with such terrible truths. Golden towers broken, trillions killed, an empire halved by rebellion. Too much, too much, too much, TOO MUCH! He fell from his throne, the Corona Nox falling from his head, clattering on the smoothed obsidian floor. Nightsworn guards approached, cautious. They knew of his… episodes, and tried to help. Sometimes they did. Sometimes… sometimes he awoke only find to cooling corpses as companions._

" _Out," he commanded, blood dribbling down nose and mouth._

" _My lord king," said one guard who neared, hand outstretched to help. Seeing that enraged him. He wasn't a weakling. He wasn't even human! Grabbing the hand, he yanked hard, pulling the arm from its socket and ripping the flesh. The guard fell, yelling and writhing in agony, his arm attached only by strings of taut sinew._

" _I said get OUT!" The other Nightsworn quickly dragged their wounded member and left their king in his throne room, utterly alone. He was always alone. No matter how many aides or soldiers he had, or how many who praised or cursed him, he was ever alone, accompanied only by visons that brought misery and despair._

 _The cranial pressure increased. Grabbing his head he raised himself to his knees and roared in pain. Everything flashed before him. Twenty pillars became eighteen. Eighteen became ten, their structures cracked. An unseen webbed path made of bone broken by folly and swarmed by madness. Worlds burned with ambition, sometimes by a father's command, other times a brother. A father? A brother? What did it mean? What did it MEAN?_

 _A throne of gold housed a half-corpse, a master of war rebuilding and a tide of darkness encroaching on a flickering beacon of light. Four beings of such immense power laughed thirstily. Murderers, selfish, greedy men ran an empire. What had once been truth now became heresy. What was once outlawed now became doctrine._

 _He saw a dark world, circling a dying sun. Approaching it were hundreds of ships, each with thousands of souls onboard. But only one held his attention. While the souls of others were akin to the flames of a candle, this one was an inferno, burning so bright and pure. Flanking the raging firestorm were four poor copies. They came to the dark world. They came for him._

 _He awoke from the vision, hair matted with sweat and blood having caked his face. Moving to a water bin, he washed his face, thinking. The door behind him creaked open. A Nightsworn officer warily poked his head in._

" _Yes?" Why was he so tired? So resigned?_

" _My lord king, are you well?"_

" _I am alive. Speak."_

" _Yes, sire. Long range sensors have detected a massive fleet approaching the planet. They will be here within eight hours. What are we to do?"_

 _They have come for me. He had known this for months. Or had it been years? "Prepare to greet them. Have the masses assemble, inform the court, and do not make any aggressive action towards them. Is that understood?"_

 _The man bowed. "Yes, sire."_

 _The Night Haunter looked at the crimson-tinged water, seeing a deathly pale face with black eyes, lines around the sockets, skin pulled tight everywhere else. He had inklings of what was to come and it horrified him._

The Emperor landed in the capital city of Nostramo Quintus, accompanied by Fulgrim, Ferrus Manus, Rogal Dorn, and Lorgar Aurelian, as well as detachments from their respective Legions. This procession, dubbed the 'Delegation of Light' paraded through the streets. Thousands were blinded by the Emperor's majesty and aura, many more weeping in joy.

Standing before the Night Haunter's palace was the primarch, awaiting the being he knew to be his father. As the Emperor approached, Curze fell to the ground in violent seizures but these were dismissed by a mere touch on the primarch's head. The first words between father and son, recorded by Carpinus in his Speculum Historiale, were:

" _Be at peace, Konrad Curze. I have arrived, and I intend to take you home."_

" _That is not my name, father. My people gave me a name, and I will bear it until my dying day. And I know full well what you intend for me."_

After the Emperor introduced His Eight Son to the Imperium of Man, He seconded the newly named primarch to the Third Son. While Curze was indifferent to Dorn, Lorgar or Manus, he was partial to Fulgrim. The two developed a camaraderie and spent a year together, fighting side by side in several campaigns, all the while Curze learned about Mankind's newest empire, his father's hopes and dreams for it, and mastered modern Imperial technology and military strategy. At the year's conclusion, Fulgrim and the Emperor felt Curze was ready to take upon the mantle of Legion command.

It was on a dead world in an uncatalogued backwater system, stripped of atmosphere in wars long over and frozen by the void's penetrating touch, did Curze greet the Eighth Legion, numbering fifteen thousand at the time of this grand muster. The VIII, though just now meeting their primogenitor for the first time, had paid close attention to their father's actions during his tutelage with the Phoenician. They knew of Nostramo, a dark beacon of unwavering justice; they knew of their father's visions, as some bearing the Night Haunter's gene-seed also suffered from this cursed gift; and they knew of his preferred tactics and stratagems of brutal, unforgiving, total psychological terror-based war. Much would need to be sacrificed and brutalities unflinchingly carried out if the Imperium was to endure the test of time. All knew this and all readied for it.

 _The dead world would be the herald of a new era. Konrad Curze, Primarch of the Eighth Legion, called the Night Haunter by those that were afraid of him, looked out over the assembled ranks of legionnaires. My sons, he thought. Taken from the prison sinks of Terra, the youths that would be known as children of the night now stood before him, grey-clad, on a world that orbited a white dwarf star. The descendants of murderers, rapists and other, far worse acts watched their primogenitor. They did not fear him, at least not like those mortals on Nostramo._ I am not some god to these Astartes, but a father. _How fitting that the sons of injustice would be the harbingers of the Pax Imperialis._

" _Look out at my father's Imperium," he spoke, his voice carried over their vox-network. He spoke Nostraman, as they had dutifully learned the language during the intervening year of his discovery and introduction to the VIII. He continued. "Do not unroll a parchment map or analyse a hololithic starchart. Merely raise your head to the night sky and gaze upon the star speckled cosmos. Stare into the blackness between worlds. That dark ocean, that silent sea, is our true home. A half-million worlds already bow in subjugation to the Aquila. But many do so out of ambition, exploitation, or false loyalties. Already, some worlds whisper of rebellion. Already dictators that easily submitted to the Emperor, already plot treason. These are errors in the Great Crusade. Errors we will correct. Starting today, we fight not only to expand the borders of our young empire, but to ensure stability from within. While other Legions lead the wars against xenos and non-compliant human civilisations, we will cement the cracks left in their wake. The dominance of the xenos is over, the age of the witchbreed fades, and the burning torch of the Imperium flares brightly. You are the Night Lords, enforcers of the Pax Imperialis. Ready your bolters, bare your claws, and unsheathe your swords. We have work to do."_

Led by Curze, the now christened Night Lords took the stars to suppress any and all discontent. The galaxy would soon be drowned in sinful blood, spilt by haunting figures in midnight clad.

 **Great Crusade-**

In the early years of the Great Crusade, when the Imperium numbered no more than a few hundred worlds, the Eighth Legion was used in an unconventional manner. While the other Legions pushed the borders of the Emperor's Realm ever outwards, the Eighth Legion instead focused on internal matters. In those early years the VIII operated as the Emperor's unforgiving justicars, putting down budding rebellions and anti-Imperial organisations before their treachery could spread. The Emperor did not want Unity to appear fractured. As a result, wherever and whomever the VIII was deployed against, none were left alive.

The outlawed gene-atrocities of the Saragorn Enclave, the Sedna Scourge, the psy-breeding of the Court of Antius, the Astagar Blockade, the March of Ten Million, and the Durmeon Catalyst are but mere examples of the ruthless nature of the Eighth Legion. It is estimated that close to eighty-two billion died in those first few decades, though many within the Inquisition that study such things conclude this to be a very low estimate, as several planetary populations were deemed too 'troublesome' to remain and were wiped out in their entirety. With the rapid expansion of the Imperium, the VIII were ever useful in maintaining compliance in recently conquered star systems. This quickly became a pattern the VIII found themselves in. Whenever a world showed discontent or a rebellious nature, an Eighth Legion taskforce was despatched to quell it, removing the government and emplacing an Administratum-directed one in its stead.

As the Great Crusade neared a century since its inception, the Master of Mankind's Eighth Son was discovered and within a year had taken command, renaming the VIII the Night Lords. If the Eighth Legion held a fearsome reputation before, it would only grow more so under the leadership of their gene-sire. Adamant that Nostramo not return to its wicked ways, the primarch ordered a company of Night Lords to reside on the Legion homeworld to enforce his dictates and keep the peace.

While the Emperor generally ordered the extermination of only those military forces that rose against Him, leaving the civilian population largely alone in most instances, Curze preferred to not only defeat the rebel soldiers, but to break their people's spirit. The primarch, using experiences on Nostramo as an example, sought to inspire a deep rooted fear amongst any seditious populace that would prevent even the thought of future rebellion. The results were brutal, but undeniably effective.

 _The wizened old man, called the Cetarch, ascended unsteadily up the steps made from the flesh and bone of his planet's army, defeated not one week ago by a detachment of the Night Lords. The man was the leader of Gallea XII, a small world of barely a hundred million people who had been brought to compliance by an Army Expeditionary Fleet a decade ago. The Galleans foolishly thought their lack of resources and importance would allow their secession to go unnoticed by the larger Imperium. If it had occurred during the time the Emperor still searched for him, the Cetarch might have been right. But that ended twenty-three years ago when he became the Night Haunter for not just Nostramo but for the galaxy as a whole._

 _The old man coughed and covered his nose with a scented linen handkerchief at the smell of decaying flesh, the buzz of mortis-gnats vibrant in the air as they ate away at what had been built in only a few hours. The campaign had been carried out in standard fashion, with vox-whispers carrying the screams of the dying echoing across all channels. Then the elimination of the forward outposts of the rebel army followed by the assassination of its officers, then finally its crushing defeat in open battle. The Night Lords had lost only a handful of Astartes, killed by the planet's 'heavy' artillery that was more akin to early Second Millennium cannons on Terra than true modern weaponry._

" _Is it finished?" Curze asked, voice emotionless, though his eye ticked. He would have another vision soon. Already the Apothecaries and Librarians were ready. The few Prophets among the ranks would attend him as only they had any inclination of what he went through. But he saw futures far more terrible than they. He saw the End of Time itself._

 _The Cetarch flinched at his tone. The weakling flinched at everything he did. Even here, his reputation preceded him._

" _Ye – yes, lord primarch. Those that were selected in the lottery wait below. One million to be sacrificed as punishment. May the gods above forgive me," he mumbled weakly._

" _There are no gods." Curze looked over the motely rows of civilians, dressed in rags. These would the tribute. He looked at the Cetarch, noting the man's family had surrounded him. Attendants, scribes and government officials, all clearly having lived pampered and secured lives, stood next to their leader._

 _Curze looked to the Night Lord who stood near the Cetarch. The legionnaire looked at his lord father, hand on chainsword. Curze nodded. The legionnaire pulled his chainsword from its scabbard, revving the blade, and cutting down the Cetarch's family and aides. The old man tried to stop the killing, but was shoved to the ground forcibly by the legionnaire who continued to cut a swathe through the planet's elite. The man cried as he fell, likely breaking too fragile bones. The primarch looked out at the tribute population, their numbers stretching to the horizon. The tribute, selected via lottery, was to be sacrificed as payment for Gallea's transgressions. But that would not be their fate. No, Curze saw how the Cetarch selected his rivals and innocents to be butchered while he would live, despite that it was his ambition to secede. The corruption was staggering. Curze sauntered over to the Cetarch, who lay on the floor, tears glistened the mortal's cheeks._

" _Why?" he cried, "Why?"_

" _Because you are corrupt. You would rather sacrifice innocents to cement your power, all after inviting death to this world with your insolence. You will die, but only after you realise your sins. You will drown in them." Activating his vox, he looked at the old man who watched him with wide eyes, seeing the snarl building on Curze's lips and the eye that ticked. "Begin the bombardment."_

" _As you command, sire," came the response from Captain Zso Sahaal, who commanded the fleet in orbit. Above every major city hovered an Eighth Legion warship, with payloads and cannons aimed planet side._

 _The capital city, some hundred kilometres away, mushroomed with plasma fire in moments. Over two million would die in the projected targeting zones, another few million from rad-poisoning. There would be survivors, there always were if Exterminatus or world-murder was not used. The primarch saw Gallea XII's ruler go still as he saw the mushroom cloud blooming into the heavens. He knew. He knew what he had wrought._

 _The Night Lord Primarch raised a hand, the Lightning Claw Mercy crackling with energy, and pierced the Cetarch chest, killing him instantly. Though he preferred to take a more thorough and slow approach to death, this quick execution was all that was needed to drive home the point. He carefully detached the head and spinal cord of the planet's ruler, and walked to the tribute crowd. They backed away in fear. He had saved them yet they still looked upon him and his as if they were monstrosities who would cut them down at any moment. Good, thought the primarch. A corpse fears nothing, while a person who had seen the horrors witnessed today would cower at any thought of turning against the Emperor's vision._

 _Throwing down the head and spinal cord, Curze turned, making way to the dropship that waited nearby. The Cetarch's family and aides were all dead, their bodies skewered by a chainsword's teeth. Boarding the Stormbird, Curze looked out over the assembled million. Another million or two lived in the countryside of Gallea, thus avoiding the bombardment. Maybe a few hundred thousand that lived in the cities' outskirts would survive the blast and ensuing radiation. No more than four million would live, the rest now charred bones._

 _But seeing them, seeing the horror in their eyes, the visible flinch as they scampered away from his legionnaires, gave Curze a semblance of peace. This world would never rebel again. The Pax Imperialis would be maintained without flaw. It had to. If not… if not, then the galaxy will be torn by a war he could not begin to comprehend as of yet. The tick stopped, the cranial pressure loomed. He deactivated his Claws, lying down on dropship's floor. Two Apothecaries neared, motioning for the rest to stay back. A Librarian knelt, hands touching Curze's mind._

" _I will attempt to take away some of the pain, sire."_

" _No. Your assistance would interfere with what I will see. I must know. I must." The Librarian's bowed head withdrew to stand alongside the others._

 _Maybe this time Curze would see what causes the war. There had only been hints and a sense of dread, but no more. Every time he felt he had seen something important, the details slipped from his memory like water through open hands. Maybe this time he will see who is in the right and who the one at fault is. This time, he might see his own path._

 _Darkness enclosed around him and the raving began._

Curze's methods quickly drew criticisms from several of his brothers: Guilliman, Dorn, Magnus, Sanguinius, but the most critical of all was Vulkan. These primarchs were quick to lodge complaints about their Nostraman brother to the Emperor, citing that the Night Lords extreme actions were now unbeneficial to the Imperium. Though the Emperor was largely silent on the matter, having understood the necessary evil the VIII had performed during the Crusade and the desired stability it brought to troublesome portions of the Imperium, He did warn the Eighth Primarch to relent. The Emperor told Curze that the time for such methods had passed and that the Legion's questionable actions should end. The primarch, annoyed at the criticism, countered saying that if the terror and fear that his Legion had brought to the Imperial masses was to suddenly cease, then thousands of subversive worlds would rise up, substantially slowing or possibly even halting the Great Crusade. So while many of the primarchs belittled Curze and the Night Lords, the Night Haunter ignored these accusations and focused on bringing his view of justice to countless worlds. As the decades continued, Curze became more and more isolated from his brothers, and increasingly from the Emperor.

" _Konrad, you are to cease this-" the data-slate crumbled with the spat of sparks in an angry primarch's fist. Plexiglass, plasteel and intricate circuity fell to the ground. He couldn't go on, couldn't read another slate's worth of thanklessness. Another missive. Another censure. Representing endless ignorance in their words. Being criticized by Dorn or Guilliman was one thing, they were idealists born on worlds of relative security, but to be criticized by the Emperor, the one who should have understood what Curze was doing, the necessity of it, was… irksome, to say the least. But no, the Emperor had donned a front of beloved benevolent monarch; though Curze knew under that façade was a blood-drenched warlord, a merciless commander and unforgiving ruler._

" _Hypocrite," Curze muttered, staring across his private chambers aboard Nightfall. Atramentar Astartes stood vigil at the chamber's solo doorway._

" _Sire?" asked Jago 'Sevatar' Sevatarion. The Night Lords First Captain had arms crossed, stance nonchalant, as he stood to the side of the chamber. The rest of the Chosen, ranking from lowly legionnaire to highest captain, looked towards their father, knowing the crumbled data-slate's contents. It was not the first such missive sent to the Lords of Night and it would not be the last._

" _I had hoped that the Emperor would ignore those that decry us. I thought He would have understood the sacrifices we have made and the acts we have carried out have been for the chance at a stable, enduring empire. It seems I was wrong." Curze looked over the assembled legionnaires. "The Emperor wishes us to stop our endeavours. And what would this invite?"_

" _Chaos," spoke Talos Valcoran, a newly inducted Apothecary of Tenth Company. Curze nodded. He liked Talos, the legionnaire had the primarch's cursed gift of foresight. Whilst in the grip of seizures and blood-filled dreams, Talos understood Curze in ways few could. A bond he shared with very few. "If we are to relent in our crusade of justice, then the Imperium becomes brittle."_

" _What do you recommend?"_

 _Talos was silent, concentrating. "We should ignore the censures and the decrees."_

" _You mean disobey my father?" Curze's voice was flat._

 _Talos hesitated, knowing he spoke dangerously close to treason. "Yes." The other Chosen looked between Curze and Talos, curious as to what would occur. The silence stretched uncomfortably as Curze stared down his Apothecary son._

" _You are right." All but Sevetar looked shocked at that. "The Emperor is but a man. A great man, perhaps, from several point of views, but a man nonetheless. We serve the Emperor through our duty to the Imperium, but we serve an ideal first and foremost: the Pax Imperialis, not a man. Order and stability is brought to this anarchy infested galaxy by us and us alone. Others conquer, we enforce; others expand, we ensure obedience. If the Emperor attempts to interfere with that, then His orders are to be considered invalid among the VIII. We follow no path but our own."_

 _Some of his sons looked conflicted, but they understood the necessity of having a Legion like the Night Lords. Without fear, there was injustice; with injustice, there was anarchy; with anarchy there was instability. Only through the terror inspired by the Night Lords could the Imperium survive._

 _Curze met each of his sons' gazes, seeing their agreement with him. Even before Curze was discovered, his sons had done the Emperor's dirty work, and now were chastised for it. No longer, he thought. No longer._

Amidst incessant criticisms and increasingly more heated censures from the Emperor, Curze and his Legion isolated themselves, ignoring other Imperial forces and only partaking in a handful of compliances alongside other Legions in the waning decades of the Great Crusade. When the Emperor withdrew Himself from the Crusade after Ullanor, giving command to Horus as Warmaster, Curze secluded himself in his private quarters for days, contemplating. Whispers of a dark future came to him in violent nightmares, of an empire broken.

Fearing the Imperium's future, the primarch sent a desperate plea to the Emperor, begging Him to stay upon completion of the Crusade. Despite the many recent troubles and arguments with the Master of Mankind, Curze believed that without Him, all that had been forged in two centuries of unending war would collapse. Curze privately worried that all the horrors and genocides that been had carried out on his orders would have been for nought. Days, then weeks would go by with no communique. Eventually Curze understood that the Emperor wouldn't even deign a response. This further distanced arrogant father and tormented son.

Curze frowned upon the Trial of Magnus, seeing it as an underhand attack by Russ and Corax upon their Prosperine brother. Though the Edict was seen as fair by Curze, the open attacks on Magnus and his Thousand Sons should never have happened, as it publically undermined another primarch and deepened the cracks among their select brotherhood. Furthermore, allowing psykers to continue using their powers for the benefit of Mankind, yet censuring the XV for their study of the warp was seen as yet another hypocritical act on the Emperor's part.

With the Emperor retired to Terra, working on a secret project none of His sons were privy to, more and more power was bequeathed to the Malcador-led Council of Terra. Having a primarch-less governing council worried Curze as he had seen first-hand on countless worlds what the greed and weakness of mortals could bring. It was during these few years that Curze became increasingly melancholic and the atrocities of his Legion worsened.

Amidst all this, the quiet support of Fulgrim was one of the few bright spots for Curze during the latter half of the Great Crusade. The Phoenician was seen as the polar opposite of the Nostraman Primarch, yet their bond was strong, though others thought them only tentative friends. In Curze's darkest moments, typically after a foreboding vision, he would confide to Fulgrim. Though Curze worried that Fulgrim would reveal his weakness to others, the Third Primarch never did so. So when Fulgrim approached Curze during the final months of the Great Crusade, the Third Primarch was confident he would find an open ear.

" _You understand why I must do this?" asked Fulgrim. Curze looked up from his throne, where he had slumped into while the Phoenician revealed all that had transpired in recent years. The Laer Temple, Lorgar's revelations, the cave, all of it, all explained to Curze. Stark, bitter truths, crushing him like a hammer. "Our father is a liar. He cares not for us, but for them. Weaklings, corrupt through and through, are to be the leaders of all we have built. To mortals He gives them an empire of a million worlds while we are to be discarded. Within a few centuries, if not less, all that was united will have crumbled under the inept hands of base humans."_

 _Curze nodded, knowing this to be true. He had done much, so much, in trying to maintain the Imperium, to prevent rebellion. Ironic then that his brother would be speaking of civil war, and Curze not only listened but agreed to on many points. His visions had hinted at such things, but not all had come true. He had hoped this one never would have. But it did. Looking at Fulgrim's patrician features, the immaculate gold and purple armour, the sword of steel-clad fire made by Manus in its waist-sheath, he saw a chance at affirming that what he had done was for the right cause. It would be salvation from his own psyche._

 _Conflictions rose within him. Did he strike, and nip the rebellion in its treacherous bud? Or did he join the traitors, betraying all that he had helped build. Memories of death, of genocides, of tortures so inhumane that even the infamous Konrad Curze paused, flashed through his beleaguered mind. Submitting to father, naming the Legion, the atrocities they had carried out to keep worlds in line, and so much more. Tears fell down bone-white gaunt cheeks. Were they tears of sorrow, of shame, or of joy? The answer eluded him as so much already had._

 _Years of censure and scorn ate away at Curze. He was just as much to thank for in building the Imperium as that arrogant bastard Horus or that pompous fool Guilliman. But no, instead of thanks, he received ridicule. Only one had supported him unequivocally from the beginning. The first and only brother he had ever befriended._

" _Will you join me, brother?" asked Fulgrim, hand outstretched, "Join me in righting the wrongs our father made. Cast down the liar with me and we can make the galaxy what we wish it to be! It will be a place of harmony, strength, justice and so much more under our guiding hand. You would be the Chief Justicar of our new Imperium while I become its emperor. Join me, Konrad. I need you."_

 _Need. What was it like to be needed? Curze had been used because he was a tool in his father's arsenal. A tool that worked diligently and effectively until it was no longer necessary, cast aside when deemed worthless. But to be needed, that was a marvel experience. To be asked, not ordered; to be treated as an equal, not a forlorn scion was appealing and it was, above all, fair. Under the Emperor, there could be none of that, never. But under Fulgrim as Second Emperor, then, there was a chance of peace and redemption._

" _What would you have me do, my brother."_

After being swayed by Fulgrim to betray the Emperor, Curze and the Night Lords made way to the Segmentum Tempestus. There, they went rogue and attacked twelve loyal Imperial worlds, slaughtering billions barring a few thousand to spread the tale of the butchery. As the recently-formed Imperial Armada under the leadership of Sanguinius tracked down the VIII for weeks, Curze chose the backwater system of Bellanor to be the battlefield that would change the Imperium forever.

Occupying the only inhabited world in the system, the Night Haunter quickly occupied Bellanor IV, using its populace as practice for the ever-increasing sadistic tendencies of the Nostraman legionnaires. The Legion's fleet withdrew to the stormy world of Bellanor V, hovering in the upper layers of acidic-gaseous atmosphere would interfere and prevent most forms of scanning augurs. There, the Night Haunter and his progeny waited, concentrated on the planet's capital of Rose City.

Not long after entrenching themselves into the rich earth of Bellanor IV, many hundreds of warships emerged from several Mandeville points. The Throne-loyalists had arrived. Amalgamating into a massive armada, the Imperials arrived to Bellanor, confident of victory. The first wave to land on Bellanor IV was made up of the Blood Angels, Salamanders, elements of the World Eaters assisting in the orbital assault, and two-thirds of the Death Guard. The Angel led the Ninth and Twelfth Legion in a drop-pod assault on the city itself, while the Salamanders and Death Guard secured the outer districts to prevent any avenues of possible Night Lord withdrawal and to secure a landing zone for the impending second wave.

After hours of vicious combat through the blood-soaked streets of Rose City, the Night Lords had been pushed back, surrounded by the loyalists. It was then, at the cusp of supposed Imperial victory, that treachery revealed itself.

 **Dropsite Massacre-**

The second wave of the Retribution Armada landed, made up of Emperor's Children, Word Bearers, World Eaters and the remaining Death Guard. As the Salamanders and the Death Guard withdrew to the landing zones, they were met by a wall of bolter fire, killing thousands. The Word Bearers and Typhon-led Death Guard fired upon the loyal sons of Barbarus while the World Eaters and Emperor's Children mowed down the Salamanders. As the broken and bloodied loyalists withdrew into the relative safety of the city, the Night Lords emerged from their strongholds in the city, sending out fresh reserves of legionnaires that had lain in wait for this cataclysmic moment. In the void, the Night Lord fleet emerged from Bellanor V and made way to the fourth world at flank speed, further trapping the Retribution Armada as it tore itself apart between loyal and traitor warships.

The Blood Angels and loyalists World Eaters suffered heavy losses at this unexpected assault from the Night Lords and the treachery revealed on the city's outskirts. Sanguinius rallied the loyalists, taking the Serenity Spaceport from the traitors' clutches after hours of heavy combat, allowing most of the survivors to evacuate to the beleaguered loyalist fleet in orbit. From there, the Imperial fleet broke through the blockade and escaped into the warp.

The Dropsite Massacre's aftermath saw Fulgrim become War Commander, further cementing the Phoenician's power. As a show of their primarch's authority and power, the Emperor's Children renamed themselves the Sons of Fulgrim, signifying their vaunted status in the new order to come. As the first traitor war council convened over Bellanor IV, Fulgrim knew that the rebellion must capitalise on the shock of their betrayal if they were to achieve victory. Knowing that the Traitor Legions were outnumbered and outgunned, the War Commander opted for various strategies that would destabilise the Imperium and divide the Loyal Legions from uniting into one, all powerful force. To accomplish this, the Word Bearers were sent to rendezvous with the Iron Hands in Ultramar. Already Ferrus Manus and the Iron Tenth were initiating what would become known as the Shadow Crusade, with Calth as the site of its first, crippling blow to Guilliman's Five Hundred Worlds. The Fifth Primarch's White Scars were despatched to harass Imperial logistical networks, destroying or capturing supply convoys and untold amounts of war materials for the rebellion. The Alpha Legion was sent to delay the Dark Angels, though it would take a year for this campaign to begin due to the First Legion still engaged in compliance with the Gordian League in the Shield Worlds. In the meantime, the XX would quickly capture strategic worlds for the war effort, as well as using their spy and operator network to sow confusion and misinformation across loyalist sectors.

The Night Lords would act as the vanguard for the main traitor fleets. Many worlds were conquered with ease, while for the more fortified worlds would face a campaign of terror and psychological warfare. So effective were these methods that hundreds of worlds surrendered after only days or at most weeks of this type of attack. On several occasions, the Eighth Legion would have to engage in conventional warfare. These actions would be principally against veteran Imperial Army garrisons or Throne-loyal Space Marines. While the Night Lords softened up Imperial resistance, the World Eaters, Typhon's Black Legion, the Thousand Sons and the Sons of Fulgrim would carry out some of the largest military offensives of the Fulgrimian Heresy, conquering thousands of worlds on the path to Terra.

With their orders, Curze and the Night Lords set off to reap terror amidst the Imperial citizenry.

 **The Fulgrimian Heresy-**

It is said in ancient chronicles written during the Heresy that for every world the Night Lords conquered, another five bent the knee to the Arch-Traitor. Analysing war-records from the civil war shows that this is largely correct. Thousands of worlds voluntarily surrendered/joined the Arch-Traitor in rebellion so as not to invoke the unleashing of the Eighth Legion. A rarely used Nostraman tactic during the Great Crusade was world-murdering. It was, at its core, a campaign of mass planetary genocide, carried out solely in ground operations where Night Lord Astartes cut, severed, skewered and butchered all that had initially dared to resist them. Whether it took weeks to months, world-murdering saw to entire planets scoured clean of all human life. During the Crusade, world-murdering had been carried out only seven times in over a century of war. During the Fulgrimian Heresy, it occurred almost a hundred times. Used typically on smaller to mid-ranged populations, it encouraged nearby worlds to change their loyalties. Most infamous, however, was the Murder of Murdock, by far the largest example of this vile tactic.

Murdock was a Civilised World slightly larger than Terran standard, located in the Segmentum Pacificus. Population: twenty-four billion. While the world's potential value to the Traitor Legions was effectively nil, as its industry could be far out-produced with a single minor Industrial World, it was the sector capital of the Duranna Sector, comprising of almost two hundred worlds. Several star systems within Duranna were seen as crucial to the war effort, as the sector held six Forge Worlds of moderate size, a string of Industrial and Hive Worlds, as well as immense shipyards for starships that could easily service Army and Legion fleets. A large Night Lord force of forty-five thousand was assembled, led by Curze himself.

Within the space of eleven days, Murdock's population fell to less than a thousand. The survivors, mainly children, were locked into cargo haulers, surrounded by the bloodied flesh of friends and family chained to walls, hanging from serrated hooks. Four cargo haulers were sent to every system in the Duranna Sector, filled with corpses in various stages of tortuous dissection, a traumatised human being, and petabyte after petabyte of picts, videos and hololithic recordings stored aboard each ship, containing the planetary extermination in meticulous detail. Torture sessions, the hunting of terrified innocents, mass graves, executions, and far worse were recorded, with the very first hololith being Curze issuing a threat of submission or to face similar fates.

In less than a month all but two worlds joined the traitors, discarding loyalties to the Golden Throne for allegiance to the Phoenician. The two resistant worlds that defied the Night Lords suffered world-murdering, killing most of their population with the handful of survivors shackled into slavery.

In the fourth year of the Heresy, the Traitor Legions inched their way to the Sol System. Harried by the bulk of the Sons of Horus, Iron Warriors, detachments of Imperial Fists, Blood Angels, Raven Guard and the Space Wolves, progress slowed considerably. But the loyalists were largely unable to unite forces, aside from minor taskforces here and there. Most of the Iron Warriors and Sons of Horus were thinly spread across three Segmentums. Fulgrim and Magnus, supplemented by Lorgar and Manus when they returned from their year-long Shadow Crusade, focused on this considerably large front. The Blood Angels, though assembled in force, had suffered heavy losses since the war's beginning and especially since the Containment of the Fracture warp tear, and had to be careful where to attack, lest they leave themselves open to total destruction. Ninth Legion activity during this time period is well-chronicled, but did not threaten the main traitor lines in any significant way. The Imperial Fists, concentrated as they were in Sol, were too sparse to represent any meaningful threat to the War Commander, while the scattered Raven Guard was still recovering from the loss of their homeworld the year before. Only the Space Wolves represented a tangible threat in the form of a piercing thorn in the traitor's galactic eastern flank. But another threat was rising against the rebel war machine: the Salamanders.

The Eighteenth Legion had staggered from the Dropsite Massacre with barely fourteen thousand legionnaires, less than a sixth of their pre-Heresy strength, with its primarch sent to Terra, thought dead. Some had accompanied their primogenitor's stasis-enclosed body to Terra, to act as an honour guard, while the majority of the Legion retreated to Nocturne. The legionnaires on the homeworld began to fill in their ranks slowly, forges churning out weapons and replacement armour at breakneck speed. The planet's regent was none other than Lord Chaplain Nomus Rhy'tan, ruling in the primarch's name. Vulkan's surprising return to life and arrival to his homeworld over a year after the Dropsite Massacre greatly lifted the morale of the XVIII. The Lord of Drakes quickly formed a powerful Army armada, bolstered by several million ground troopers, whilst his legionnaires formed the core of this assembled military might. Within months of Vulkan's return, dozens of key worlds in several sectors had been garrisoned and patrolled by Salamander-led forces. Though the Salamanders did not have the strength to afflict the traitors as other Legions were doing, their rapid recovery and assembly of massive Army contingents worried Fulgrim.

To counter the twin threats the VI and XVIII represented, Fulgrim issued orders to two of his brothers. Angron was sent to confront and neutralise the Wolf King, which he very nearly did during the Battle of the Stormwall in the Heresy's fifth year. Though the Sixth Primarch and the bloodied remnant of his Legion survived, they were now trapped within the Ruinstorm, unable to leave. To stop the Salamanders from attaining offensive capability, Fulgrim sent Curze to cripple the Eighteenth Legion. Curze and half his Legion withdrew from the Heresy's frontlines, their target: the Draco Sector, heart of Salamander controlled space. Curze, long desiring to best his most severe and outspoken critic, eagerly anticipated killing his Nocturnean brother with his bare hands.

Arriving to the sector, the Eighth Legion embarked on a campaign of terror, razing a dozen star systems and world-murdering three defenceless planets. Vulkan sent over ten thousand of his legionnaires and most of the Imperial Army under his command to various planets within the Draco Sector to stiffen their fortitude. To protect Nocturne itself were impressive orbital defences and a small but powerful mobile fleet consisting of a majority of the Legion's capital ships. The fleet would act as the rapid reaction force, deployed to faltering warzones to prevent their fall to the Traitor Legion if need be.

For weeks the more numerous Night Lords attempted to draw out the Salamander Primarch, tormenting Vulkan with ghastly images and recordings of merciless treatment of Imperial citizens, the mass murder of millions, and far worse. This tore at the humane primarch's heart, but he would not give in to Curze's lures. As the Draco War dragged on into months, Night Lord taskforces simultaneously attacked several star systems crucial to the defence of the sector. Vulkan responded by deploying the majority of his mobile assets, keeping just enough for system defence. The Eighteenth Primarch remained on Nocturne to coordinate the sector-wide theatre of war.

Days after the deployment of the Legion's reserve warships, a Night Lord fleet emerged from the warp into the weakened Salamander home system. Vulkan, knowing this could be the Legion's last battle, gathered all his warriors and readied to combat the Night Haunter.

 _Curze killed emerald scaled armoured legionnaires without pause, Lightning Claws fizzling as blood touched their energy fields. He dashed between them, killing as he moved closer and closer to his target. Hesiod, Seat of the Tribal Kings, burned around him. Thousands of Night Lords swept through the city, killing civilians and the Astartes who foolishly tried to defend them. Via the data streaming to his helm, Curze saw the battle progress not just here but elsewhere. Each of the seven Sanctuary Cities of Nocturne now faced the Night Haunter's ire._

 _The assault on Prometheus, the planet's over-sized moon, continued as VIII legionnaires pummelled away at the Salamander's fortress-monastery. In the distance, across a trade market, was Sevatar, ending the lives of loyalists with ease._

" _Sevatar!" he yelled. The First Captain impaled a Salamander officer, revving his chainglaive to clear out the gore and bone. After doing so, the Nostraman officer looked to his father, raising a hand in acknowledgement._

" _Sire?" Sevatar asked, voice calm and in control, though Curze could hear the kill-urge in that tone. The Night Lord killed three more Salamanders with no apparent struggle. The corpses joined their brothers in littering the ground._

" _You have command." Curze didn't even wait for Sevatar to acknowledge. Seeing that all was in place, he disengaged his helm's seal, pressurised air hissing out and threw it to the ground. Curze couldn't be bothered to lead. He had a brother to kill. Curze's favoured son undoubtedly began issuing orders even as he joined another melee, as nearby legionnaires moved to secure strongpoints and Salamander positions._

" _Vulkan!" he roared to the dusty air. "Face me! Face me!" The Night Haunter barrelled down an alley, cutting through a dozen civilians and a wounded Salamander. "Face me, brother! Brother!"_

 _Emerging from the alley, he dodged the heavy bolter of a Spartan, who had rounded the street corner. Greeting the challenge, Curze accelerated towards the tank, predicting where the bolter fire would go and where he needed to be to avoid it. Within seconds he neared it, jumping onto its hull, cutting through the heavy bolter barrels. A hatch opened, a Salamander pulled a rocket launcher out, ready to fire. Curze dodged the rocket, it impacting harmlessly against a nearby building. Bending down, he effortlessly lifted the legionnaire from his command pulpit._

" _You'll have to do better than that," he snarled in Low Gothic. With a simple repositioning of his Claws and some exertion of strength, he ripped the Space Marine apart, half of the body flying one way while the other half went another. Wet impacts of gore-filled armour upon ceramite were welcome to his ears._

 _The back-hatch opened, deploying ten Astartes in Cataphractii war-plate. They raised their bolters but the primarch moved faster than they. He landed amongst them, dodging shots, using the Terminators as cover from each other. He decapitated one legionnaire, put both Claws into the chest of another, ripping out innards and the spinal cord. He danced with them, a dance of synchronised death._

 _What felt like moments lasted mere seconds and all ten Terminators were dead. Curze shrugged, looking for the next target._

" _Vulkan! Face me, you coward! Face me, or I will kill everyone!"_

 _A man approached him, amusing Curze. Not a legionnaire, not a primarch, but a man, mortal and clearly frail with age. His once dark hair had long gone to grey. Judging by the clothes, the man was a blacksmith, an honoured position here. In the blacksmith's hand was a forge's hammer._

" _Vulkan now sends forgers to stop me?" he taunted. A wicked, predatory smile followed._

 _The blacksmith stopped in his tracks, slightly shaking. Odd. Most would have stammered in fear at the sight of the Night Haunter, let alone being in the presence of a primarch. This mortal was used to being around a son of the Emperor. "I am not afraid of you."_

" _Then you will learn to be." Stepping forward, Curze knocked aside the outstretched hammer, it clattering across the pavement, and raised his Claw to kill._

" _Stop," boomed a voice, thunderous in its delivery. Curze smiled and turned to face Vulkan. Several of the Pyre Guard stood by, bolters raised and aimed at the Eighth Primarch._

" _Ah, brother, so nice of you to join us." Curze deactivated his Claw but rested its sharp talons on the blacksmith's balding head. Blood began to trickle down from where they rested. "Hard to believe it has been over four years since Bellanor."_

" _Let him go," ordered Vulkan, hand on thunder hammer._

 _Curze eyed the three dozen Pyre Guard, who had encircled him. "Dismiss them. It wouldn't do for sons to see their father die."_

 _One Guard activated a power sword and stepped forward but stopped at a gesture from Vulkan._

" _Leave us," the Drake Lord said, "Link up with Numeon. Save as many civilians as you can."_

 _The Guards left, obviously reluctant. Soon enough bolter fire echoed from where they went, signalling they had joined the larger battle. Aside from the damaged Spartan, several ground cars and the dead Salamander Terminators; it was only the two primarchs on the wide street. Them and the blacksmith._

" _Let him go, Konrad. He is innocent."_

" _Innocent? There is no such thing. Only sinners and punishers."_

" _Then what are you, Konrad? A sinner or a punisher?"_

 _Curze looked down at the blacksmith, seeing the fragility of the weak majority. The Nocturnean genetic offshoot differed him and his kin from the base template of humanity, but the root was still there, the centre of wickedness that resided in all men and women._

" _I am both." Curze's Claw penetrated the blacksmith's skull, grey matter and blood covering his blades. The forger collapsed. Curze gauged Vulkan's reactions. The Eighteenth Son's mouth cemented into a firm line, his grip on the thunder hammer tightened and his posture became more hostile. "So you knew him, then? Do you know all your people?" No response. "Such wasted sentimentality. They do not deserve your love, brother. They are hideous on the inside, monsters, liars, criminals."_

" _What does that make you?" Vulkan's voice had lost any semblance of calmness, hardening like rock around a volcano, but one that would soon erupt, spurting uncontrolled magma._

" _I am hideous, but I do not hide it like they do, like our brothers do. I am honest, I know what I am. And I know what you are."_

 _Vulkan unhooked the thunder hammer, igniting it, bathing his ebon skin and red eyes in electric fusion blue light. "And what am I?"_

" _A symbol of false promises." Curze ignited his Claws. "And such lies should never be uttered." The Night Haunter advanced and the Drake Lord met him, Claw and hammer clashing._

The Night Lord assault on Nocturne and Prometheus was devastating. Over half of the Salamander garrison died defending their home, with several million Nocturnean mortals either killed or taken aboard Eighth Legion warships, never to be seen again. Curze returned to Nightfall wounded and angry. It is known that he had fought with Vulkan, but none knew what occurred during their clash, other than that both primarchs survived. Though Vulkan lived, the Night Lords had dealt his recovering Legion a nearly crippling blow. Two thousand XVIII legionnaires dead in a single day, much of the Legion's supplies and forges had been ransacked or destroyed, and far worse. The orbital defences of the homeworld and moon were a ruin. The fortress-monastery on Prometheus had been reduced to shambles, but only the outer sections had been compromised. The inner were intact, the Night Lords having been unable to breach into it before the order to withdraw came. The mobile fleet had been crippled, though the VIII fleet lost more than it had predicted in the process. The Eighteenth Legion flagship, the Flamewrought, survived though it would take months of yard work for it to be considered battle-ready. Though the Draco Sector had withstood the Night Lords, it came at a heavy cost. The Salamanders had been severely weakened in terms of legionnaires, warships and supplies. As a result of the Draco War, the Eighteenth Legion would be relegated to mere skirmishes with the Traitor Legions for the rest of the Heresy.

Curze rejoined Fulgrim on the frontlines, as did Angron a year later after dealing with Russ and the VI. Three years after the Battle of Nocturne, the Eight Legions had finally reached their target: Sol.

The Night Lords carved their way through Sol alongside their traitorous cousins, and during the Siege of Terra, the Eighth Legion doggedly fought to bring down the False Emperor and replace him with the War Commander. Terror Squads were deployed alongside Alpha Legion infiltration squadrons in bypassing loyalist defences. While the sons of the Hydra sabotaged and planted false information throughout the loyalist-controlled Outer Palace, the Night Lords ensured a sense of panic reigned over the masses in the Palace. Were it not for the resolute Space Marines of the three Loyal Legions, the unforgiving Sisters of Silence, and the dauntless Custodians, the morale of the loyalists might very well have collapsed. The Terror Squads, though effective at first, were hunted down and killed by squads of Silent Sisters and Custodians, allowing none to sneak by them into the Sanctum Imperialis.

As the Siege wore on, and casualties mounted, Curze grew infuriated at the slow progress, mirroring Fulgrim. The Satumine Gate fell on the twenty-third day, spearheaded by Angron and Curze. The Bloodthirster Ka'Bandha led the daemonic charge that overran the loyalists at the Ultimate Gate. Each and every major engagement in the Siege saw Night Lord legionnaires fighting in the thick of it. Long thought to not be the equal of other legionnaires, the Nostraman Space Marines showed such savagery and cruelty that none dared to think them lesser Astartes.

With the banishing of Ka'Bandha by Horus, and the Eternity Gate standing strong, Fulgrim grew desperate. The War Commander's final gamble for the Throne saw him teleport deep into the Inner Palace after Twentieth Legion elements had deactivated the void shielding. Fulgrim killed Dorn, but the Emperor, though mortally wounded, killed the Phoenician. The Heresy was over. The rebellion had lost.

The Night Lords fled from Terra, taking heavy losses in the process, their drop-zones left vulnerable by their retreating allies in the mad dash to escape the Throneworld. The Eighth Legion, having suffered drastic losses by war's end, decided to return to Nostramo to replenish their ranks.

When the Night Haunter and the VIII limped back to the Ghoul Stars, arriving to their homeworld for the first time in force in several decades, they found Nostramo in the midst of civil war.

The Night Lord company that had been left on Nostramo had stayed loyal to the Emperor, and had used their gene-seed reserves to bolster their numbers greatly. However, several legionnaires were more loyal to their primarch than the Emperor and had organised a massive uprising. Supported by the local Nightsworn and by most of the planet's population who feared the Night Haunter above all else, the Curze-loyal Astartes began their rebellion sometime during the Heresy's seventh year.

Curze, his psyche having suffered greatly during the civil war, and having nearly snapped in the aftermath of Fulgrim's death due to sorrow, finally did so above the polluted clouds of his seditious homeworld. The primarch had long suffered from a severe dissociative identity disorder, known to have two personalities among his sons. One was the charismatic, benevolent and even noble Konrad Curze. The other was the sadistic, nihilistic, and foreboding Night Haunter. For two centuries the primarch had walked a fine line between these two personas, never committing fully to either one.

Until now.

Konrad Curze was suppressed and the Night Haunter emerged in total control for the first time. The primarch ordered his battle-wearied Legion to support those loyal to him on the planet. Within hours, the Throne-loyal Night Lords retreated from the system, having retreated via several warships, their destination: Terra. The primarch-loyal Astartes greeted their primogenitor. The Night Haunter, his semblance of forgiveness locked away within, ordered that anything of value on Nostramo be stripped away. Tens of millions of people, their fates decided to be replacement crew for the Legion's fleets and for their male children to be the new generation of Night Lords.

Years' worth of adamantium reserves were taken from warehouses and stored in the cargo holds of the Eighth Legion. The fortress-monastery in Nostramo Quintus was stripped bare. As the fleet readied itself to leave, Curze gave one final order concerning his homeworld: extinction.

The _Nightfall_ was the first to fire, and soon every Night Lord vessel fired down on the world that had turned, if ever briefly, from the primarch's law. Tens of billions suffered from the primarch's wrathful judgment. Nostramo's crust, long weakened by millennia of unchecked mining, cracked open, allowing Nostramo's fiery heart to pump lava over the surface, eventually coating it all, and exterminating everyone and everything.

Before Nostramo even began to cool, the Night Lords were gone, never to return. Their world of sin had been purged and their Legion was ready to begin the Long War.

 _The_ Void Stalker _ejected from warp, spat out as if an annoyance. It tumbled through normal space, wreckage breaking off from the hull. Another two ships emerged, one exploding within moments, its plasma reactor damaged beyond recovery and had overloaded. Fel Zharost checked the life-scanning augurs. No survivors. The former Chief Librarian of the Night Lords sighed as settled into his command throne aboard the battle-barge. The other ship, the_ Emperor's Dictate _, was in better shape but not by much. The heavy cruiser had gaping wounds in its hull, taken while fleeing from the traitors. He thought back on recent events._

 _Nostramo, once a beacon of what law and order could be, now was an irradiated wasteland, all its inhabitants dead. All those not considered valuable by the Legion, that is. He looked over the readings, tech-priests and mortal crew, former Nightsworn, attempting to save their ship. The warp drive was not shutting down properly. Readouts ticked higher and higher radiation across a dozen key systems._

 _Looking out over the star system they arrived in, a system with a cool blue star, with no notable planets or moons. Not even an Imperial survey void station resided here. So close. So very close to Terra, yet with both ships in the state they were, they would not be able to enter the warp again. They might as well have been on the other side of the galaxy._

 _The few legionnaires on the bridge flanked him, officers and specialists the lot of them._

" _We failed." The others didn't respond but he felt their agreement. "The Eighth Legion will go down in history as one who betrayed the Emperor in full."_

 _The senior tech-priest moved to him, bowing as he did so. "Yes?" Fel queried._

" _My lord, the warp reactor is going critical. It will detonate in hours unless we do a hard shut down, but that will most likely damage it beyond recovery."_

 _An idea came to him. "Even if the reactor was fully functional, we could not re-enter the Immaterium in our current state, correct?"_

" _Yes, lord," the tech-priest sounded confused. It was hard to tell due to the augmetic voice-box._

" _Then overload the reactor, eject it, and let it explode."_

" _My lord, why?"_

 _Fel silenced him with a raised hand and turned to his brothers. "A warp reactor detonation will appear to be a flare to any astropath looking. It will act as a beacon. This close to Terra, there is undoubtedly someone watching." The rest nodded, agreeing. Fel turned back to the tech-priest. "Make it so," he commanded._

 _The hours passed as the reactor was forcibly overloaded and ejected. The_ Emperor's Dictate _had used its damaged plasma thrusts to manoeuvre out of the way. Both ships had their shields and Geller fields raised._

 _The warp reactor, glowing with aetheric energies, exploded. A small tear in real space opened, and Fel could have sworn he saw… something watching them for the brief moment the warp tear was there. A being of such malevolence, sprouting talons, feathered wings and tentacles. A large eye stared out at them, unblinking. The pupil alone was larger than both ships. Thankfully, the tear shut closed, the warp energy dissipating._

 _They did not have to wait long. Half a day after detonating the reactor, a squadron of Iron Warrior warships emerged. A grand cruiser, two light cruisers and two destroyers. In other scenarios, Fel may have been able to take them head-on with his battle-barge, but in its current state, it was woefully vulnerable. The squadron saw the ident-tags of the two ships and began warming up their energy weapons, and torpedoes were doubtlessly being shuffled into their tubes._

 _Fel already had all channels open. "Iron Warriors, hold your fire. We are loyal to the Emperor and the Golden Throne of Terra."_

 _Silence, then one channel clicked. "Identify yourself, Night Lord." The voice was Olympian accented, but clear Low Gothic._

" _I am Fel Zharost, former Chief Librarian of the Eighth Legion."_

" _And why should I trust a son of Curze?"_

" _I may carry the Night Haunter's gene-seed but I did not follow him into rebellion. My men and I were garrisoned on our homeworld when the war erupted. Warp storms cut us off from the rest of the galaxy. By the time we found out what had happened, we rose up. Unfortunately, the Night Haunter came back to Nostramo and defeated us shortly thereafter. We only barely escaped."_

 _More silence. "Check the war-records, you will see that neither of these ships were logged by your forces as participants in the Heresy, nor that I fought beside my traitorous primarch. Our battle-damage is severe."_

 _The link was silent as the Iron Warrior officer checked the cogitator logs. Moments passed. "Your story checks out, and the damage is clear. But we have to ensure you are loyal. This is a standing order by the Iron Praetorian's command."_

" _I understand. We will surrender ourselves to you for judgment." Iron Praetorian? So the rumours were true._

" _You will not surrender to me, Librarian. But to them."_

 _In that moment, Fel saw who the IV legionnaire was talking about. A strike cruiser, undetected before and even now barely flickering on augur despite being so close by, was steely grey and clustered with subtle but heavy weaponry. Fel checked the ship's ident-tag but saw only a stylized 'I' as its symbol and the rest of the information locked away as 'Classified - Vermillion'. Another symbol alternated with it, a sword impaling a book. Every thirty seconds the symbol would change to the other. He didn't recognise either of them. Apparently much had changed in the short time he had been closed off from the wider galaxy._

 _A vid-channel was opened between the_ Void Stalker _and the unknown ship. An Astartes in an unfamiliar mark of armour and helm looked out at him. Electric blue eye-lenses stared at him. Markings seemed to be acid-etched into the armour, though for what purpose Fel knew not._

" _Prepare to be boarded. Any resistance will be deemed as hostile. Understand?"_

" _Yes. What is your name and rank, Space Marine?"_

" _Classified. We will be boarding in twenty minutes." The vid-link ended. Fel stared at the static-filled screen, brow furrowed in thought._

" _Careful, brothers. Much has changed and we are on unfamiliar ground. Comply with them fully." Fel stood and made way to the hangar bay, wishing to greet these unknown Space Marines in person._

 **Reign of Terror-**

During the early months of the Great Scouring, the Night Lords joined the Syndicate Chaotica, alongside the Iron Hands, Word Bearers, and Alpha Legion. For the next several years the Syndicate Chaotica stalled Imperial advances into traitor-occupied space. Hundreds, if not thousands, of battles were fought and the VIII was in the midst of many of them.

Shortly after joining the Syndicate, Curze began to suffer from increasingly more painful seizures, falling into bouts of unresponsive comatose. Curze's memory began to suffer and the nightmares became worse. The primarch began to experience vivid hallucinations and visions foreboding a dark and terrible future. As the weeks became months, and the months became years, it was clear to all of the sons bearing the Night Haunter's gene-seed: their father was dying.

First Captain Sevatar took command of the Legion as Curze could no longer perform day to day activities, instead writing and drawing his mind's madness on the walls of his chambers. Sevatar ordered one of Curze's Chosen to meet with Lorgar Aurelian. The selected Astartes was Apothecary Talos Valcoran. Talos travelled to the _Fidelitas Lex_ , beseeching Lorgar for help. The Urizen knew that if Curze died the Eighth Legion may very well fracture, undermining the Syndicate defiance of the Imperium. The Seventeenth Primarch agreed to help.

Arriving to Tsagualsa, Lorgar went to his brother's private sanctum in the hope that he could heal him.

 _Lorgar opened the door with his mind. Powers that even ten years ago would have been beyond him now were used without effort. He walked into the Eighth Primarch's sanctum and saw the walls covered in Nostraman script. The language was known to Lorgar, but to his bodyguard commander it was obviously a mystery._

" _It is gibberish," he said to Argel Tal, Crimson Lord of the Gal Vorbak. "The runic script, at a glance, is gibberish. Random thoughts, broken meanings, a shaking hand, all contribute to this," he gestured at the walls covered in it. Not only were the walls covered but so to were the floor and ceiling. Every square centimetre had Konrad's writing on it. "But there is a pattern. It is like Chaos, in a way. Primordial, base, and begetting madness, but under it all is a pattern of power." Lorgar moved to a column, covered in the flesh of slaves and the inked Nostraman runes. He translated the serpentine characters without thought, and then looked deeper for the meaning beneath the chaos._

" _By the Octed..." He turned to Argel Tal. "This foretells the death of Perturabo, killed on Olympia."_

" _Will it occur?" asked the Crimson Lord._

" _There is a very good chance it will. Curze's gift of foresight is not always correct, but is right more than it is wrong" Lorgar moved around the column, reading and deciphering. He turned to look at Sevatar. "Do you know what these say? What these predict?"_

 _The First Captain shook his head. "We've deciphered some of them, but most are lost to us. His ravings are getting worse, the writings more unknown."_

 _The primarch turned back to the column, reading what it predicted. 'Ten become six. Six act as one to hold back the tide at the End of Time. Death. Death. Death.'_

 _He continued reading: 'An heir emerges, unites the broken. The empire of lies endures but the eleventh strike bites deepest.'_

' _A devourer of stars encroaches. All is consumed.'_

' _The green hordes multiply, their power reminiscent of old.'_

' _Bodies of metal, hollowed souls restless, endless legions emerge from their graves.'_ I must write these down _, Lorgar thought._ These need to be recorded.

" _Brother," hissed a voice. Lorgar turned, seeing Curze emerge from another chamber, stumbling, leaning against the wall for support. His brother was not well. He appeared far gaunter than even Mortarion, bones visible beneath taut skin, bags under all black eyes. Blood seeped from Curze's mouth, seemingly unnoticed by him. "What are you doing here? Is the time to attack Sol upon us?"_

 _Lorgar looked to Sevatar, brow raised. "His memory lapse," explained the legionnaire,." He doesn't know where or when he is most of the time."_

 _Curze's eyes, unfocused before, became sane for a moment. "Sevatar, recall Zso and the rest of the Kyroptera. Fulgrim has shown me a new path to take and we will do so. No longer shall the Emperor impede us."_

 _Sevatar stepped forward. "Sire, both Zso and Fulgrim are dead."_

 _Curze looked bewildered, confused. "What? No, no, no. Impossible. Impossible!" Incoherent ramblings followed, with only bit and pieces making any sense. "Vulkan thinks he is better than me. A fool he is! I must return to Nostramo. I must save it! The screaming never stops. Why doesn't it stop?"_

 _Lorgar moved to his brother. Curze limply lifted his head and looked at the Urizen. "You look too much like father. Maybe that's why I always hated you. That and your damn faith," Curze spat a wad of blood on the floor at that._

 _Lorgar put his hand on Curze's head. "You are in pain, brother. I will attempt to help." He delved with his powers, searching Curze's mind. Lorgar's mouth opened in surprise. Curze's mind had small tendrils all around it, sharp thorns embedded into the grey matter. They were not of a physical condition, nor warp-born. Curze's own gift was killing him. Lorgar used his powers to touch one of the tendrils. It writhed; all the while he could hear screaming._

" _Release me!" it called. "Release me!" it pleaded._

 _Lorgar left Curze's mind, his head aching in pain. Curze slumped against the wall, deep in comatose._

" _Take him to his bed. I'll finish the ritual to save his mind." Lorgar felt drained but he must save his brother. He had failed so many but he would not fail this one._

Lorgar performed a ritual on his brother, attempting to save the Konrad Curze personality, but that aspect of the Eighth Primarch was buried so deep to be unreachable. As Curze fell further and further into madness and nearing death, his mind violently splitting between two personas, Lorgar made a choice. The benevolent, noble primarch that was Konrad Curze was forever destroyed, to allow the dominant Night Haunter persona to take over completely, allowing Curze to survive. When the primarch woke from his nightmares, all desire to see law and order reign were forever replaced by monstrously sadistic tendencies. Pain and fear were to be dealt out not to advance a cause but to advance one's own desires and satisfactions.

Lorgar, saddened that he couldn't save the better half of his brother, withdrew back to his territory and the Great Scouring continued, unabated. Curze, his darker side in permanent control, ruled over his territories with a bloodied clenched claw.

Years passed, though eventually, the Syndicate began to fall apart. First came Alpharius' death on Eskrador at the hands of Guilliman. Then Manus left to form the Ferrum Dominion centred on Medusa. Lorgar stripped Colchis of anything of remote value and left for the Eye of Terror. Only the Night Lords remained in Imperial space. The Eighth Legion relocated itself to one of its occupied sectors. In the Thramas Sector, on a hidden world called Tsagualsa, the Night Lords dug in, and used the planet as their secret base.

In the decades after the fragmentation of the Syndicate, the Night Lords began to operate from Tsagualsa, raiding across a dozen sectors and in effect ruling them. Situated on the edge of Imperial space, the VIII found a relative safe haven. As the Imperium reformed and dealt with a host of issues, the Night Lords ruled with impunity. Billions of Imperial civilians, seemingly forgotten by the Imperium, suffered under the rule of the sons of Curze. After a century of terror, the Emperor's vengeance came.

Led by Lion El'Jonson, Lord Protector of the Imperium, twenty-six Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes arrived to Tsagualsa, intent on ending the Night Haunter's murderous reign. The Lion's strategy was without flaw and within hours, thousands of Night Lords were dead, half their fleet crippled or destroyed. Curze, knowing any further fighting was pointless, retreated, leaving the Imperium. He withdrew to the Ghoul Stars, heading deep into it, farther than any Imperial star cartographer had ever mapped. Far enough away from any possible Imperial retribution.

It was there, in the black of space, that a world was found. Orbiting a dying star, it was perfect for the Night Haunter and his surviving sons. Named Ssleoth'yr'Cavashallash, translated to Low Gothic as World of Eternal Shadows, this became the new homeworld of the VIII.

 **Dark Millennium-**

The Night Lords were one of only two Traitor Legions to not inhabit the Eye after the Great Scouring, the other being the Alpha Legion. Striking out from the Ghoul Stars, the Night Lords raided and bit away at the Imperium for centuries, causing immense destruction. Such was the threat of the VIII, that the High Lords of Terra in late-M31 under Warmaster Horus' suggestion and encouragement built an Iron Cage. The Ghoul Star Iron Cage contained all but the largest Night Lord incursions, these called Terror Crusades.

These Terror Crusades, occasionally launched in synchronicity with War Commander Sakaeron's Vengeance Crusades on occasion, but were typically isolated events, caused immense suffering and vast amounts of damages to hundreds of Imperial star systems in the outer fringes of the Ultima Segmentum. This pattern would continue until late M41.

 _It was coming true. The visions he had about the End Times were coming to the fore. Enthroned, he looked over the slaves, their flayed bodies dripping blood onto the floor, hands and feet bolted to the walls or hung by serrated hook chains. They writhed in pain, their groans an orchestra of pain._

 _Curze closed his eyes and let the oncoming vision take him: a master of war's long search for his brethren was finally bearing fruit; a lion on the prowl on a world of bone-white sand and crimson skies; a reaper locked in a cage, brooding; a bloodied wolf running on the tides of the Immaterium; a wounded son clad in cobalt returning; a drake with a volcanic heart thundering home._

 _So many hints, so many half-truths and honest lies. It was culminating. The Second War Commander was recruiting primarchs for the Eleventh Vengeance Crusade; he had foreseen his arrival to this world. Sakaeron would need him, for only a primarch could fight another primarch._

 _The doors to his sanctum swung open, Sevatar moved forward. "Sire, Tyberius-"_

 _Curze raised his hand. "I know who seeks me. Let him in."_

 _The First Captain moved aside and an imposing, impressive figure moved in. Wearing a heavily modified war-plate, with parts from a half-dozen marks, Sakaeron stepped forward, striding to Curze's throne._

 _He looks so much like Fulgrim, he thought. But there were differences. Sakaeron had short, close cropped hair, wasn't as tall, nor had the presence of a primarch. But he did have the presence of a leader. And those eyes, the same shade of purple as the Phoenician, the same aura of command, obedience and arrogance. This was truly Fulgrim's Heir._

 _Sakaeron approached but did not kneel. Curze did not care whether he did or not._

" _So, Sakaeron, what has brought you to my world?"_

 _The Second War Commander began to speak. Curze listened, but his mind was elsewhere. He would join forces with Sakaeron, adding his Legion to the Sons of Fulgrim and all their allies and fellow Traitor Legions. The End Times were coming. It was only fitting that he stand there, claws unsheathed, at the end._

With the 41st Millennium coming to a close, Curze for the first time in millennia leads the Night Lords into battle, testing the Ghoul Stars Iron Cage, probing for weaknesses and drawing crucial reserves of Imperial military assets and manpower to defend it. Assets and manpower that are desperately needed elsewhere as the Eleventh Vengeance Crusade is soon to begin. And despite the recent arrival of seven of the Emperor's Loyal Sons to bolster the Imperium and ready it for the greatest war to be fought since the Heresy, it may not be enough.

 **Combat Doctrine-**

The combat doctrine of the Night Lords has always revolved around the tenets of terror-based psychological warfare. Even before the discovery of their primogenitor, the Eighth Legion used fear as a common tactic when fighting enemies of the Emperor.

During the Great Crusade, the VIII legitimised their harsh tactics under the guise of the Pax Imperialis, feeling the ends justified the means. Many disagreed with this, notably Primarch Vulkan of the Salamanders.

After the Heresy and the defeat of the Traitors Legions at Terra, the Night Lords abandoned any pretence of following the Pax Imperialis, casting off what was once their core philosophical tenets but what had become shackles to them over the course of the Heresy. Since then, the Night Lords have pursued any and all avenues of terror, ruling over a vast slave population, tormenting them for sport in between raids into Imperial territory.

Though considered by other Legions during the Crusade to be less effective in conventional warfare, this was proven false during the Heresy and Scouring, as Night Lord Space Marines were shown to be equivalent to other Astartes.

 **Organisation-**

Due to the nature of the Eighth Legion's role during the Great Crusade, a Night Lord company varied in size, sometimes ranging encompassing one hundred Astartes but on occasion fielding a thousand. Squads, named Claws, are the premiere sub-unit of a company, typically eight to ten Astartes. A highly specialised unit are the Terror Squads. These units specialise in psychological warfare and are typically deployed in advance of the Legion. Wherever the Terror Squads are deployed, enemy morale plummets and more oft than not they surrender or are murdered off before the main Night Lord force arrives.

Current intelligence estimates that the Night Lords Legion in the 41st Millennium is estimated to be over a hundred thousand, but not as numerous as they were on the eve of the Heresy in which they numbered one hundred and fifty thousand legionnaires.

As with every Legion, the VIII has a mortal attachment. For the Night Lords, this is the Nightsworn. Originally they once served as the auxiliary judicial element to the Night Haunter's reign on Nostramo, their roles expanded greatly when the world was integrated into the Imperium. Nightsworn duties vary, but typically revolve around being the principal crew of a Legion warship as well as acting as an army and garrisoning force during planetary invasions. Some prized Nightsworn become the personal bondsmen, though they don't use the term, to legionnaires, cleaning and prepping their armour and weapons for the next battle or raid. Since their fall to treachery, the VIII use slave labour heavily and slaves are notably beneath Nightsworn, creating a hierarchy amongst mortals in Night Lord-controlled space.

 **Recruitment-**

After discovering Nostramo, recruitment for the VIII switched from Terra's prison sinks to Curze's homeworld. Most of the Aspirants were taken from the hive slums or from the children of Nightsworn.

Since the destruction of their homeworld and their resettlement on the World of Eternal Shadows, the Legion recruits among the Nightsworn's spawn but also heavily amongst slaves and those children captured during raids.

 **Homeworld-**

Nostramo became the homeworld of the Eighth Legion after Curze's discovery. After the departure of Curze, the planet was governed by a company of Night Lords, which was rotated periodically. The last company to oversee Nostramo was the 151st Company of the Night Lords, who were known Emperor loyalists; the last Regent of Nostramo was Chief Librarian Fel Zharost. Prior to the Eighth Legion going rogue and the subsequent Dropsite Massacre, Nostramo was cut off from the Imperium via warp storms for over six years. The final months of the civil war, the storms abated and Nostramo became divided by those loyal to the primarch against those loyal to the Throne.

After the Siege of Terra, Curze returned to Nostramo, disgusted with what he found, ordered his loyal legonnaires to retake the world in the midst of a civil war. After defeating the loyalist Night Lords, the survivors fled to Terra, the primarch ordered the death of his world via bombardment. After this, the Night Lords ventured deeper into the uncharted territory of the Ghoul Stars, eventually settling on Ssleoth'yr'Cavashallash. The planet, better known as the World of Eternal Shadows, was very similar to Nostramo in environment and thus provided its legionnaires with a true successor to their former homeworld.

Though the Legion stayed at Tsagualsa for around a century, they did not consider the planet a homeworld, rather a long-term base. After the Lion-led Imperial attack on Tsagualsa that nearly crippled the Legion, the Night Lords typically do not cluster their forces in one place. Even the World of Eternal Shadows rarely holds more than a tenth of the Legion's strength at any one time. However, with the call for Legion-muster to aid in the Eleventh Vengeance Crusade, tens of thousands of legionnaires and hundreds of warships are concentrated with their primarch, with tens of thousands more acting in coordinated efforts in undermining the defences of the Ghoul Stars Iron Cage.

 **Beliefs-**

The Night Lords once believed that their actions, no matter how horrid or distasteful, were beneficial to the Imperium during the Great Crusade. They believed that the Pax Imperialis should be upheld, no matter the cost. But their arrogance led to their descent into nihilism. Ignoring the Emperor's authority in the latter decades of the Great Crusade, the embracing of sadism and the belief that only they were the true bearers of the Pax Imperialis sowed their inevitable betrayal to Curze's father.

Truly believing that Mankind was corrupt and weak, its intents foul and selfish, the Night Lords followed Fulgrim into treachery without hesitation. They disliked the path the Imperium was taking, the withdrawal of the Emperor, the seclusion of the primarchs from the Council of Terra, and more made the Eighth Legion wary of humanity's future.

Since the Fulgrimian Heresy, all pretence of being the fair but unforgiving justicars of the Imperium faded. Now, the VIII pursues its monstrous acts for the sake of it, no longer legitimising the murdering of billions with supposed justice and retribution. As a result, many Imperial worlds that detect a Night Lord squadron in the vicinity, immediately request Adeptus Astartes reinforcement and ready themselves for the war to come. Because whether you fought to the death or surrendered without a shot fired means naught, for the Night Lords will kill indiscriminately with no hesitation. They will bathe in the bloods of millions for the simple pleasure they take from it.

 **Gene-seed-**

Surprisingly, the gene-seed of the VIII is astoundingly pure. Neither genetic deviation nor warp contamination, aside from a few isolated incidences, plagues this bloodline. According to studies carried out by the Ordo Malleus, this is due to the Legion's abhorrence of Chaos and their residing outside the Eye of Terror.

A known genetic quirk of the sons of Curze is their excellent unassisted night vision. All share the all-black pupils of their gene-sire and pale skin, attributes similarly seen in the Raven Guard bloodline and their descendants. Due to their permanently dilated pupil, the Night Lords have a weakness towards light. When fighting on worlds with a normal day/night cycle, the legionnaires will typically keep their helms on during the day, regardless if in combat or not. Aboard Night Lord ships, near-permanent darkness is the norm, with only softly glowing red or purple lights alighting the corridors of their starships, the same holding true for their ground-based infrastructures.

Another side effect of Curze's gene-seed, and kept as a secret within the Legion, is that some legionnaires inherit the Night Haunter's ability of foresight. Called the cursed gift, these legionnaires, called Prophets, use it aid their companies when commencing raids and incursions into the Imperium or the Eye of Terror.

 **Battlecry-**

When a Night Lord fleet approaches a targeted world, they will flood the vox channels with demented whisperings, screams of tortured prisoners, and maniacal laughter. But on the eve of every planetary invasion and combat engagement, the legionnaires of the VIII will utter their two battlecries: "We have come for you!" or more usually, "Ave Dominus Nox."


	24. Anthology Four

**Anthology Four**

 **Reinforcement**

It was strange, the quiet. Tranquillity had become a long forgotten friend, one who had not visited in three years. Not since Fulgrim rose the flag of rebellion on Bellanor, killing tens of thousands of loyal legionnaires, had he looked over such peace. Outside the garden, fratricide was waged on a scale unseen in human history. The death-screams of worlds and the innocent cries of billions flood astropathic channels.

Jasaric, Tribune of the Ten Thousand, walked through one of the many gardens that existed in the Inner Palace. This one was known as the Garden of Ish'maahd, named after some long-dead famous Terran gardener, but was now isolated and long forgotten. Gone was the order so common throughout the Palace, the intricate designs and carefully groomed flowers and exotic plants. Now it was overrun with weeds and tasteless shrubs.

Jasaric preferred it this way. There was something beautiful in such simplistic nature.

He wondered if anyone had been in here since the original designers died off, their small, insignificant garden fading into total obscurity. Curious, very curious.

Armoured boot steps echoed as another of the Ten Thousand neared.

"Jasaric," boomed a deep voice, one heavy with burdens and responsibility but being held aloft by unquestionable fortitude.

The tribune turned to see Constantin Valdor, Captain-General of the Legio Custodes, looking at him, appraising him. Where's Valdor's armour was immaculate, Jasaric's had clearly seen battle-damage, its golden sheen dulled and rent in several places. He would have to find an armourer to repair it before he returned below. Beside the Emperor's chief bodyguard was Shield-Captain Amon Tauromachian, Valdor's chosen successor. Behind them trailed the Ares Guard, watchful for any who would spy on this meeting.

"Constantin, it is good to see you."

To an outside observer, especially to the Astartes, Jasaric's tone would have been too familiar and the lack of addressing Valdor's rank would have been disrespectful. But the Ten Thousand were not the strict hierarchy that was the Legiones Astartes. They were of a more fluid nature. Besides, being one of the Original Thirty allowed Jasaric some leeway. He was one of only a handful left of the Emperor's first Custodes, something he shared with the captain-general.

Valdor tilted his head at the response, returning it in his own way. "How fares the war?"

Jasaric's grip on his Guardian-Spear tightened momentarily as memories of dead allies littering a physics-defying battlefield in caverns covered in golden mist, hordes of warp beasts assaulting the defences… His grip relaxed. He was not there, but here.

"It continues," Jasaric said simply. Valdor nodded. He had not expected much more to be said of that. If he needed to be informed, the Emperor would do so.

"What do you need?"

Jasaric spoke of the necessary forces needed to bolster the armies in the Webway. It took several minutes to note them all.

As the tribune ended, the captain-general spoke. "The munitions and Mechanicum reinforcements will not be an issue. The Fabricator-General understands the necessity of the Great Work. The liberation of traitor-held Mars continues apace, allowing more to be deployed here. The Custodian reinforcements however will be problematic."

"How so?" queried the tribune.

"Seventy percent of our order is in the Webway, leaving just three thousand to protect the Palace. Already, some wonder where the majority of us are. We have delegated most Outer Palace security to the Imperial Fists. I can spare five hundred more for now, and possibly another five hundred at a later date. I dare not dip below two thousand for Palace security, unless He orders it."

Jasaric nodded. He expected as much.

"Will the Praetorian be able to gift us any spare companies? He has by far the most legionnaires on Terra."

"Negative. Dorn and Horus know the basics of what occurs below, but we cannot risk corruption amongst their sons. They are needed where they are."

Jasaric frowned. "We need more warriors. Five hundred Custodians will bolster our ranks, and the Sisterhood is sending reinforcements too, but it may not be enough. We need more."

Valdor shrugged. "There is no more to give at this time."

"Pardon, sir, but I believe there is," spoke Amon. Both senior Custodes looked at the younger. "We have a force of Astartes that would be perfect for the Project. Their disappearance will not be missed and hardly noted."

Jasaric nodded, knowing who the shield-captain spoke of. "They will do."

"Then you shall have them," confirmed Valdor.

 **A Paladin's Duty**

The training hall bustled with activity. Four hundred and sixty-three figures in silver and gold power armour, practised their blade forms, or enhancing their familiarity with vehicles or various bolt, las, plasma or melta weaponry.

Solomon Demeter, High Archon of the Imperial Paladins, watched his brothers hone their skills. He watched from a command spire erected in the centre of the large chamber, allowing him a three hundred and sixty degree view of the former Emperor's Children warriors.

He was proud of their progress. Some had been on Terra for three years, but many had arrived with him two years ago when they had escaped Chemos' Kyklos Belt. What he wasn't proud of were the Imperial Fists that lined the walls, interspaced with an occasional Custodian and Silent Sister.

Demeter understood the necessity. He and his brothers were the gene-sons of the Arch-Traitor, the greatest betrayer in the history of the Imperium. The Third Son of the Emperor and seven of his brothers were sweeping through the galaxy, acting akin to harbingers of death. It was only natural for Palace security to be… cautious.

Still, it was a bitter pill to swallow to not be fully trusted, despite all the mind-scrying, soul-delving, intensive interrogation and more. Those thoughts raced through his head when he noticed a trio of Custodians moving towards him. Recognizing Valdor and Tauromachian, he descended down the observation tower's ramps.

The Paladin met the Custodians.

"High Archon," began Valdor.

"Captain-General," returned Demeter. "Is there anything I can help you with, sir."

"Walk with me, Demeter." The former Child of the Emperor complied, following beside Valdor. Tauromachian and the unknown Custodian trailed behind. They walked out of the centre, walking through a corridor lined by Valdor's Ares Guard.

"Tell me, Demeter, would you like to contribute to the war."

"Of course, sir." Demeter felt a flare of hope. "Will we deployed to the frontlines?"

Valdor stopped and turned to face Demeter. "No."

"I don't understand, sir."

"You will contribute to the war, but not by fighting the Traitor Legions."

Demeter's face did not change, but he must have radiated what he felt.

"You're disappointed," commented Valdor.

"Yes," he might as well be honest.

"It is admirable you want to fight your kin, Demeter, but certain elements on Terra do not wish for you to do so. Not yet, at least."

"Who?" he asked bitterly.

"It is of no concern to you, Demeter." By Valdor's tone, Demeter would not learn anymore from this.

He swallowed the bitterness, suppressing it. "Then why do you ask me to contribute when you won't allow me to fight."

"You won't fight the traitor Astartes, but you will fight. You'll fight something else. Something as dangerous as Fulgrim's armies."

Demeter shook his head, unbelieving.

"Tell me," said the unknown Custodian as he stepped forward, his armour not in as pristine shape as the other two and having seen combat not too long ago. Some of the scarring looked… odd. "What do you know of Immaterial predators?"

 **In the Rubble**

Smoke filtered out of what had once been a hab-block. An Army Chimera lay on the block's edge, its heavy bolters rent and broken. Three corpses lay near the vehicle, one blackened from fire. The city of Tosruik stretched across the horizon. It wasn't a hive city, but it might have been one in a few centuries.

Not any longer. The war had come to Rulidea.

Lieutenant Rogyr Calston waited, lying on his stomach, looking down the sights of his solid-slug sniper rifle. While many preferred long-las rifles, he preferred something with a little more _umphh_ to it. His regiment, the 233rd Cthonian Rifles, had been on Rulidea for eight months now, the war for the planet had been waging for two years now.

"Sir, convoy approaching," crackled one of his soldiers over the vox. He spoke Cthonian, they all did. Calston doubted the enemy had any Cthonian translators. To his knowledge, no son or daughter of his homeworld had turned their back on the Warmaster or the Emperor. Cthonians were loyal to the core, always have been and always will.

"Copy. How's the sky looking?"

"Clear, LT, no dropships or 'copters," replied another, located in a nearby bell tower.

Calston clicked in response. Under the cameleoline netting and cloak, he turned his rifle to spot the convoy. Six cargo-8s, two cargo-12s, three Chimeras, four Tauros' and a Centaur led the way, clearing any lingering rubble on the highway. The convoy, full of soldiers and munitions, trudged through the rubble, attempting to reach their stronghold two kilometres away.

He zoomed in, noting the positions of the 233rd platoons scattered and hiding about, waiting for the signal. He adjusted his sight and looked at the face of a colonel in Fulgrim's Imperial Army. The man was aged, with a pinched face and dark circles around his eyes. His uniform showed he belonged to the Lestraad Rangers.

The convoy turned a corner, seeing massive rubble littering the roadway, forcing the convoy to come to halt as the Centaur began to push it out of the way.

"Calston, you have him?" voiced Major Isen.

"Yes, sir."

"Take him."

"Copy."

Calston brought his crosshairs over the traitor colonel's head.

"On my go," he muttered, knowing his subordinate snipers had targeted other officers in the enemy convoy.

Target aligned, he took a deep breath and exhaled… then fired.

The colonel's head knocked back, a thumb sized bullet hole in the forehead, his brains adorning the headrest. Six other officers were killed a second later. Calston had already switched to another officer, this one a captain, and killed her. As the snipers picked off enemy commanders, the rest of the Cthonian regiment opened fire on convoy, destroying vehicles and killing the traitors.

After killing six officers, he stopped. Cthonian soldiers began intermixing with the Lestraad, showing them hiver gang savagery at its finest. Not long after, the supplies were being taken by the loyalists and the vehicles set afire. It may not be a victory that would change the fate of the war, but victory nonetheless. Eventually, hopefully, they would add up and see the Imperium survive this war.

 **Plenipotentiary**

The dropship shook as it descended through the atmosphere. Major General Wilker Rozar frowned at the shaking. He had made hundreds of combat drops in his long career, but this was the first he would make purposefully as a garrison commander.

Moments passed and the shaking slowed then stopped. The Valkyrie's engines screamed as it hovered, settling down onto the landing pad. Rozar unbuckled and rose, grabbing his duffel bag. His protection squad, consisting of eight elite storm troopers in modified flak armour flanked him as he descended the ramp. Four more Valkyries had landed with him, depositing his command staff and their protection detail; overhead a Lightning squadron soared by, heading towards the local MAB airstrip.

Awaiting Rozar were the governing council of Adalaster, a world loyal to Fulgrim but simmering with a highly militant Imperial underground. The Planetary Governor, an obese man appearing in his late sixties, barring any rejuvenant treatments which were doubtful considering the prestigious position he held. Adalaster was a mountainous world, rich in ores and considered the jewel of the Pyat Sub-sector, similar to Macragge. It had sworn loyalty to the Third Primarch days after news of the Dropsite Massacre had reached the planet. Unfortunately for the Fulgrimian-aligned government, there was a substantial Throne-loyal resistance that interfered with the ore extraction and storage, delaying several key industries necessary to the war effort in the sector.

Which was why Rozar was now here.

He strode to the assembled officials. "You are Planetary Governor Rosh?"

"Yes, General Rozar."

"My rank is major general, sir. Address me as such."

"Ah, ahem, as you wish."

"Thank you, sir. Who is your lieutenant governor and your PDF commanding officer."

The governor gestured to two men to his left. "Lieutenant Governor Paxx and Commandant Bredjen." Paxx nodded and Bredjen came to attention.

Rozar moved to stand before them. "Pleasure," he said, right before he pulled his service pistol and put a slug into both men's foreheads. Their bodies collapsed and several aides backed away in fright, one throwing up on his shoes. Rozar moved back to the governor, who stumbled backwards, falling on the ground.

"Wh-why?! I am the governor of this world."

"No longer." Rozar's pistol fired again. The Army officer turned his attention to the cowering aides and officials who were beginning to back away until they met the butt end of storm troopers lasrifles who had circled around during the introductions, forcing them to hold position.

"I am Major General Wilker Rozar, commanding officer of the Agamyrin 47th Star Corps. I am twenty year veteran of the Imperial Army during the Great Crusade, and have served our beloved War Commander since the beginning. I served alongside the Tenth Legion during the Shadow Crusade and subsequently the Third Legion several times since returning from the Five Hundred Worlds. I am used to, and expect, a certain amount of efficiency and accountability from each and every one of you. I will hold you to the standard I hold myself and my soldiers."

He gestured to the corpses on the ground.

"They severely lacked in that. It has been four years since Bellanor, and in that time the Throne-loyal resistance has not been contained nor eliminated but allowed to prosper. I have been sent here by First Marshal Thaddeus Fayle to deal with this loyalist problem. I will be harsh, I will be unforgiving, but I will root out any seditious elements that impede the vital work being carried out here. By the Phoenician, I swear this."

In the distance he saw the troop carriers and many more dropships, ranging from Valkyrie to Devourers and others, begin to descend, carrying the first wave of his eighty thousand man corps, split into eleven highly trained and disciplined regiments.

"Now, who was third in line for the governorship of this world? The line of succession is so different from world to world. Speak up and I will not harm you."

None moved or spoke. The silence carried for perhaps twenty seconds before a gangly man stepped out.

"I- I am Director of Planetary Affairs"

Rozar shot him.

"He dallied when he should have acted. I want answers delivered immediately and without pause. Now, who was fourth in line?"

A small woman stepped forward. "That would be me, major general."

"And you are?"

"Suva Gasger, Director of Communications and Cultural Enlightenment."

The propagandist. Excellent. From his reports, the Department of Communications and Cultural Enlightenment had been quite effective, barring the small but growing seditious population. Not her fault, really, but rather her superiors for not squashing the resistance in its budding form. At least she appeared competent.

He held out his hand, causing her to flinch slightly. "Congratulations on your elevation to Planetary Governor, ma'am. I hope to assist you in any way in dealing with these bothersome loyalists."

She took his hand, and though she might have been shaking, her grip was firm. "Thank you, major general. Your experience is most welcome."

Rozar nodded and motioned for her to walk beside him as he made his way to the ground car that would drive them to the governor's palace. She may be the official political leader but everyone would know that it was he who would rule in the Phoenician's name. The time of civilian dominance was over; the time for the military to rule all facets of Mankind was at hand, uniting the soldier and politician into something purer, stronger. No more shall the weak rule over the strong. Such was the future of Fulgrim's Imperium.

 **A Burning Dawn**

The sun was an hour away from rising, but already his body craved water. Considering he was a transhuman wearing the most advance model of power armour available in the Imperium that was saying something about this world's climate. He sipped the hot water, but did not drain the canteen. He needed to ration it. Another odd concept. On most worlds he could go days, weeks even, without a single drop of liquid or morsel of food. But Jebeno Vruce was not like most worlds.

It was a backwater's backwater, resources minimal and almost impossible to mine. The planet's sixty-two hour day was either deathly hot during the daytime, even for Astartes in armour, or piercing cold during night time. The Heresy did not exist on Jebeno Vruce, at least not during the day time. Night was another story. That was the only time the war could be fought, with dawn acting as a warning to both sides to seek shelter within the earth.

Saul Tarvitz had landed his heavily modified Thunderhawk in a deep cave discovered and marked by Malcador's mortal agents months ago. Now he travelled on foot to reach his target: an Astartes whose name none knew but instead was known by the title of Master, commander of the Second Watch. The Second Watch was a Blackshield unit, and an unaligned one at that. Reports and communiques given to Tarvitz to study and analyse as his strike cruiser _Unyielding Resolve_ made its way to the inhospitable world, starkly detailed that Second Watch had fought for both the Emperor and for Fulgrim.

Akin to mercenaries this particular warband, made up of legionnaires from at least half a dozen Legions, walked a fine line fighting for both sides. No one would simply deny the help offered by a warband that numbered over two hundred Space Marines, particularly out here in the remote Saeg Trail, a collection of unimportant stars on the very edge of Imperial space, far from the principal warzones.

And for the first year of the civil war, the Second Watch did very well for itself, having fought in seven battles and a dozen skirmishes, sometimes for the loyalists, sometimes for the traitors, but always for the winner. The weapons, armour and other war material scavenged from those battlefields helped made Second Watch a formidable thorn in the side of any enemy.

This string of success continued unabated until half way through the second year of the war. The Second Watch, hired by a Throne-loyal world for protection in exchange for armaments and spare parts for their warships, fought against another Blackshield warband called the Conclave of Renewal, hired by the Traitor Legions.

The battle went on for months, with both sides taking heavy losses and becoming bitter of that fact. Eventually the Master tired of the stalemated attrition, turning on his employer and stealing from the world they had protected. The Conclave of Renewal then razed the planet to the ground, sending half of what they scavenged to a traitor-held star system as per their contract, and using the other half to repair and rearm. After doing so, they began hunting the Second Watch, intent on finishing what was started.

Now, months later, Second Watch was on the verge of destruction, their warships having been captured or crashed into Jebeno Vruce. The Conclave of Renewal landed their forces in full and began the slow but steady process of rooting the Watch out of their fortified caves and killing them.

The campaign would end, sooner or later, but Tarvitz had to evacuate his target before that happened. Now he just had to find Watch.

He sat cross legged onto a small flat-topped rock, and opened a vox channel on an unencrypted open frequency.

"Take me to the Master."

There was no response. He didn't expect any, but thirty minutes after sending the message, three legionnaires in black and grey armour surrounded him, bolters raised.

"Who are you?" one barked.

"I am Saul Tarvitz, Knight-Errant for the Regent of Terra."

"Tarvitz, eh? Would that be the same Saul Tarvitz that was a company commander in the Third Legion?"

"That was me, yes, but I now longer serve in the III, nor its primogenitor. I serve the Emperor and Lord Malcador only."

The three didn't respond to that, likely communicating via a private channel.

"Why do you want to see the Master?" asked the one who seemed to be in charge.

"I have something vital to discuss with him."

They didn't move. Tarvitz sighed.

"As I said, I serve the Emperor and Malcador, not the War Commander and most definitely not the Conclave."

"Very well. We will search you first."

"I wouldn't expect anything less, but do hurry. The sun is soon to rise."

And they did check him for transponder signals and beacons, taking his bolt pistol and power sword from him, but allowing him to carry the combat blade strapped to his boot, which seemed odd to him.

The legionnaire who spoke earlier must have noted his confusion. "No Space Marine should be without a weapon, no matter how minor. That is a mandate of the Second Watch. We would even extend that courtesy to those whoresons in the Conclave."

"How civilised of you," Tarvitz commented. "And what is your name?"

"We took on new names when we swore loyalty to the Master. You may call me Auster."

"Greetings," Tarvitz said, filing the name away as he analysed the three legionnaires as they escorted him to their base. One was obviously a Space Wolf, with the fondness for leather, bone and iron fetishes on his armour, as well as wards to protect against psykers painted in blood on his chestplate. Another was… Iron Warrior, or perhaps Iron Hand. They were so dour and humourless they could be either. He wouldn't know until they took off their helms. The third, Auster, was unknown for the moment. No matter, he would discover his identity later.

For nearly twenty minutes they hiked through the rough terrain, the temperature skyrocketing. The horizon was becoming blood-red. Soon, it would be unbearable. Thankfully, they reached the cave complex. The four legionnaires moved into the cave, one of the rocks shifted and revealed itself to be a Scout in stripped down armour.

"Impressive," he commented. The Scout legionnaire smirked. This one was a Raven Guard… or maybe Night Lord.

They descended into the cave, seeing several Astartes cleaning weapons and armour. Tarvitz was guided to the main cavern, where a stone slab throne stood empty. Tarvitz was guided to the centre of the cavern, told to wait and he did so.

It did not take long for the Second Watch to congregate in full, with a hulking figure in Cataphractii plate emerging from the back to take his seat on the throne: the Master of the Second Watch himself. The legionnaire was clean shaven, with deep set eyes and a jagged scar crossing diagonally across his face.

Tarvitz wasn't surprised by many things anymore, but this he was.

"Zerron. I can't believe it."

Zerron, former Lieutenant in the Iron Warriors Legion, chuckled. "It has been a long time, Saul."

"That is has. I do not remember you wearing Terminator armour when I last saw you."

"You'd be surprised what I can scrounge up in these troubled times. Now, what brings you to my part of the cosmos?" There were now about eighty legionnaires in the cavern, watching.

"Straight to the point, I see. Some things haven't changed. I've come here for two reasons. One, I have an offer from the Lord Regent."

"And this offer is?"

"Pardon for all crimes committed against the Imperium. You will remain as an independent unit, but will fight exclusively for the Throne and not for the Arch-Traitor."

The cavern was silent.

"And why would I do that? The War Commander's contracts have been quite lucrative for me and mine."

"They have been, I cannot deny that. But what about in a year's time, two years even? You have undoubtedly heard of what fights beside the Phoenician. Creatures brought forth from pacts. Some call them daemons."

"And what do you call them, Saul."

"The enemy, though daemon is as good a name as any."

Zerron smirked. "I see. Yes, I have heard of them."

"Have you fought beside or against them?"

"No. The Second Watch hasn't even fought beside or against the Loyal or Traitor Legions. Only against other Blackshield warbands, Army units and PDF."

Malcador's intelligence had suspected that, but it was good to confirm. "That's good. You can be brought back into the Imperial fold with little to no issue."

"I don't think so, Saul. Do you want to know why I do not follow the Iron King or the Emperor? Out here, we are free. Even before the war broke out, the Saeg Trail was only Imperial in name. Pirates and dictators ruled here, giving lip service to Terra. I suspect that whoever wins in the end, they won't care for these star systems. Before Bellanor, the last Astartes that had visited the Trail was a squad of Iron Warriors, which happened to be mine. We didn't find out about the Dropsite Massacre for nearly three months after it happened. I had to make a choice, then. Head towards the nearest Iron Warrior garrison or join up with rebel forces? I chose neither.

"I was an Iron Warrior. I performed my duty for decades, unflinching and loyal. And what was my reward for my dutiful service? Deployment to the Trail, the back arse of nowhere, to act as a reminder of who ruled them, and then promptly forgotten. So I decided to create my own personal fief, a micro-kingdom if you will. No longer beholden to anyone but myself."

"What would your father say to that?"

"Oh, he would kill me. I have no doubt of that. But with a galactic-wide civil war raging through the stars, I know I am unimportant enough to not be noticed for years, decades even, if noticed at all.

"But…" Zerron paused. "But the Conclave has interrupted my empire building."

"Then you can return with me to Sol. We could use you and your legionnaires."

"No, I don't think so. I've had a taste of freedom, I won't return to the shackles of some distant monarch. I'm sorry Saul." Zerron seemed to mean it.

"How unfortunate," Tarvitz meant that too. "You will die out here, you know. The Conclave is moving in. I give you weeks at the most."

"That aligns with my own estimates. It is better to die free than becoming a lackey to another." Zerron took a deep breath. "What was the second reason?"

Tarvitz nodded, accepting Zerron's reasoning. The second reason, his primary objective for this mission, came from his lips, "I'm looking for Zou Pei."

Zerron's eyebrow raised at that. "The former White Scar? Why?"

"His knowledge and insight into the early months of the Fifth Legion's treachery would prove invaluable."

"That's it? You come to the edge of the galaxy to ask a single Space Marine questions?"

Tarvitz shook his head. "That's not all. If proven loyal and clean from any associative taint he might have accumulated while working for the traitors, he could become a Knight-Errant."

"And what are these Knights-Errant, exactly? You call yourself one but hat do you actually do?"

Tarvitz chuckled. "That's classified."

Zerron chuckled. "I will not order him to go. Those of the Second Watch choose their own path."

"That's acceptable. Where is he? When can I speak to him?"

"Turn around."

Tarvitz did, seeing the legionnaire Auster remove his helm. The almond shaped eyes, the deep olive skin, and the two pale scars on both cheeks declared who this was. Tarvitz extended his hand, a Terran custom he had learned.

"Zou Pei," he said.

The legionnaire took the proffered hand and shook it. "I do not go by that name any longer. I took a new name when joining the Legion and I took another when I left. I am now Auster. You know the ways of my birthworld, Tarvitz. Most would assume I am from Chogoris."

"I read your file. You were born in the Panpacific Provinces and inducted into the Fifth Legion three decades ago."

"That is correct."

"I am curious how you were not subject to the Chondax Purge."

"Despite being a Terran, I was extremely loyal to my primarch, far more so than to the Emperor. There were not many from Terra who thought that. When the Khagan said the Emperor had betrayed us, had become a tyrant, I believed him, with all my being. I fought in four engagements following Chondax, fighting loyalist legionnaires and their allies. That was when my doubts began, however. I sensed… a sickness in the Legion, one that was spreading quickly. I saw things… things that never should have happened. The Heresy did not become the war for dethroning a tyrant and putting a benevolent leader in His place like I had been told, but became one of jealousy and stark ambition; at least it appeared that way to me."

"When did you leave the Legion?"

Auster gestured for Tarvitz to follow, which he did. They walked to a secondary cavern, away from the majority of the other legionnaires who had begun to disperse, heading off to their own tasks. Zerron had gone elsewhere.

"Have you ever heard of Dawx III?"

"No, I have not."

"It is a minor world in Tempestus. A world that acted as a trade centre for three other star systems, all of whom were poor and did not have much in the way of resources. My company, the Brotherhood of the Endless Plains, demanded subjugation from the world and demanded a tithe from the planet. We received it, albeit after some hesitation. Then after reporting to the flagship we received an astropathic message from the Khagan saying that demanding was for the weak, and the strong took what was theirs. So we did so. My khan ordered us to invade the planet to appear strong to the primarch. By the time we were sated, over twenty million were dead and the world stripped of all valuable riches and goods, including hundreds of thousands of slaves in our fleet's holds. Then we left, sending atomic warheads against several cities where refugees had flocked to. Another thirty million died in radioactive fire before we reached a Mandeville point and departed."

Auster took a deep breath. "I realised then that the rebellion was not what I thought it was, what I hoped it would be. I saw the corruption within my Legion and saw evidence of similar taint in the other Traitor Legions, so I left."

"How?"

"I snuck aboard a supply vessel and when it entered the warp, I revealed myself and took over the ship. None would dare question a legionnaire. I diverted the supply ship to the Saeg Trail because my brotherhood had received reports of a non-aligned Blackshield unit operating in the area. I thought that if I returned to outright loyalists I would be killed for my treachery and crimes."

"You might very well have been," admitted Tarvitz, "but the pardon extends to you as well. Besides, coming here to convince the Second Watch to align itself permanently with the Throne was my secondary objective. You were my primary."

"Me? Why? I am but a single warrior."

"Because you saw the corruption and left, and as near as I can tell it has not infected you. You were exposed to it for months and came out due to moral confliction. We have need of such fortitude and character in the Knights-Errant."

Auster frowned.

"If you stay here, Auster, you will die alongside the others. You will have died fighting mercenaries, not the true enemy. Fighting and dying here will not cleanse your conscience or alleviate the guilt that weighs upon you. Come with me to Terra and you can make a real difference to atone for your sins."

The former White Scar was quiet, pondering for several minutes. He looked around the cavern, as if looking for confirmation or assurance, but eventually nodded. "I will go with you to Terra, I will undergo the scrying, the investigation and everything else that follows to prove my lack of taint."

"It will be painful."

"Nothing more than I deserve. And if I die, that will be payment for what I have done."

Tarvitz understood that. "Gather your things. When the sun sets, we leave."

 **A New Method**

Hovering over the loyalist minor Forge World named Jemall IX, was the void station _Unbroken_.

"I present you these," said Captain Verulam Moy, arms crossed and with a content expression as they looked out over the massive orbital shipyards of Jemall IX.

"What are they?" asked Captain Haren Svensellen of the Sagyar Mazan, looking at the collection of unfamiliar warships with a critical eye.

"Strike frigates," spoke Tybalt Marr, another captain of the Sixteenth Legion. The two captains, known as the Either and Or amongst their brethren, were so close to identical that even fellow XVI legionnaires had difficulty telling them apart on occasion.

"Strike frigates? I have not heard of these," said Chief Librarian Shinaz Arghun. His Low Gothic was heavily accented and he spoke slowly so as to pronounce the words properly. His grammar was improving quickly in the Imperium's common tongue. Svensellen knew that every evening, Arghun practiced his speech, perfecting and working hard to hide or at least tone down his Chogorian accent.

"A new Legiones Astartes ship-class, based off the Nova-class frigate but with extensive modifications, including a small hangar bay for four dropships. All are recently constructed. It performed well in trial tests, and several Forge Worlds were commissioned to produce them."

"Which Legion ordered the ships?" asked Commander Rel Felsar.

The Astartes officers turned to Adeo-XVII, the Fabricator-General of Jemall IX. The tech-priest, gender having long since become something unimportant as the red robed tech-priest was almost entirely machine with only the left hand still made up of flesh, tilted its head, its eyes cycling from various hues of red.

"Fifth Legion," it said, voice a neutral monotone drone, seemingly uninterested. "The Fifth Primarch ordered for sixty strike frigates to be built for his Legion. Seven worlds were to build them. All but Forge World Wyx Tertiary still remain in Imperial hands. Since the Fifth Legion has rebelled, these ships have lain in wait for nearly a year since their completion."

Svensellen smirked at that. _Our past will forever haunt us._

Adeo-XVII continued. "When Sixteenth Legion forces arrived, we gave the strike frigates to them. Various modifications, such as IFF and livery have been altered to remove any traitor-association."

The strike frigates were sleek, only slightly larger than traditional Nova-class Legion frigates but sporting nearly a twenty-five percent increase in speed at the expense of much of its weaponry. The strike frigate sported lacked a lance cannon, but fielded an impressive assortment of turbo lasers and a small but lethal stockpile of torpedoes. It would not win many warship-on-warship battles, but it was very quick and can deploy several squads quickly into an active warzone, and could nip at the heels of enemy warships from afar. Perfect for a Legion like the White Scars that had mastered the art of void warfare, and forever pursued ways to solidify their mastery of that art.

"You want us to man these, I assume?" Felsar asked Marr and Moy. "Our experience in void warfare would mesh quite well with these designs. It is not ideal, but we would operate them better than you."

The two Sons of Horus nodded at that. "That you will," Marr said. "I recommended to Captain Torgaddon that you should man these, and he sent that on to the Warmaster. Lupercal not only agreed but insisted that the Sagyar Mazan be gifted the strike frigates in their entirety, those we have under Imperial jurisdiction at least. You will not simply man them, but will be a permanent feature of your void arsenal, making you more than simply an auxiliary to the XVI."

Felsar, Arghun and Svensellen looked at the two other legionnaires, shocked at that. To gift dozens of warships to the Sagyar Mazan was a sign of great trust and camaraderie. The former White Scars had fought beside the Sons of Horus in several battles since their rescue from Chondax, but this… this was a risk on Horus' part, but it undoubtedly cemented Sagyar Mazan loyalty to him and the Imperium that much more. Besides, the XVI had no experience with ships such as this, and though new to this specific design, it was similar in concept and execution to other White Scar vessels. And, if a ship's crew were to defect to the War Commander, its effectiveness in direct combat was marginal, thus not risking tipping the scales of most battles in favour of the traitors.

"Thank you, Tybalt, Verulam, you will not regret this."

"I have no doubt, my friend," said Moy. "Now, come, we have to talk of conscripting your ships' crew from Jemall, and we will loan you small crews of trained Cthonian naval officers and enlisted men to establish an experienced core for your crews…"

The legionnaires and Mechanicum leader moved through the void station's gilded hallways, scented with sanctified oils, and talked about establishing the Sagyar Mazan as a semi-independent long range strike force for the Sons of Horus. Jaghatai Khan would come to regret the day he decided to betray his father and sons.

 **Skies of Tallarn**

The Thunderbolt shook as it flew over the battlefield. The battlefield, more akin to a metal grave, was littered with hundreds of armoured vehicles. Lieutenant Colonel Daev Zavi shook his head not at the tens of thousands, if not more, that were dead amidst the wreckage, but at the earth itself. Tallarn was once a verdant Agri World, with bountiful green fields and breathtaking forests. That was before the arrival of the Iron Hands. The Tenth Legion had arrived, unexpected, and reigned death, killing billions with the Life-Eater Virus and the ensuing firestorm.

The survivors, numbering in the tens of millions, had resided in fortified underground cities and fought back. They were losing, badly, despite the best efforts of the men and women of Tallarn. Then the Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists arrived, four companies and two companies respectively. The Iron Hands had conquered two-thirds of Tallarn quickly with blitzkrieg tactics but after several massive tank engagements, were now content to maintain a static war.

It puzzled Imperial commanders, until a satellite had captured picts of a massive dig site in the middle of what had once been the Dahaw Valley. It was clear the Iron Tenth were searching for something, and though they hadn't found it yet, it worried Imperial commanders to know end. As a result, the loyalists had begun a large-scale counter-attack to retake the world before whatever the Gorgon's sons were looking for found it.

Zavi's squadron of four Thunderbolts roared north-east towards where a particularly fierce air battle was taking place. As they travelled there, they met up with another squadron of Thunderbolts and one of Lightning fighters. The enlarged flight passed a Marauder bombing wing, its numbers a fifth less than when it set out earlier that day. Likely traitor intercept squadrons had attacked them as they returned from a bombing run over enemy positions. That became confirmed as the bomber wing voxed the fighter flight as it continued onwards, warning them of what they would find.

It took another half hour of flying until they saw the battle. From this distance, to Zavi, it looked like a blood gnats' swarm, though the consistent explosion in the air or a smoking plane crashing into the earth ruined that allegory. The aerial battle was far reaching, spreading out over a couple hundred kilometres. Reinforcements arrived for both sides, and low fuel or damaged planes departed, a constant flow in and out.

"All pilots, check in," he said over the flight's vox-net. One by one they checked in. Some sounded worried. Zavi would have been shocked if none were. It was doubtless one would piss themselves in the middle of the battle but that was a fact of life for many pilots, especially in the brutal dog fights that would soon happen.

"All pilots, good luck out there. Fly well and true." He hesitated for a minute, hand hovering over where his Aquila tattoo was tattooed onto his chest. He had prayed with his squad mates before they flew out. Such practices were no longer considered taboo or illegal. Even the legionnaires accepted it, or more likely ignored it. It was good to have faith in a conflict such as this. It was soul armour to the hell of this war. "The Emperor protects."

The other pilots, even those not in his squad, repeated the words, most in Low Gothic but some said the phrase in High Cant or various other tribal cants. As the last pilot finished, the flight fragmented and entered the fray.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** In the Night Lords Index, I changed how many loyalist primarchs return to the Imperium for the End Times. It was seven originally, but I have changed it to six to equal that of the traitor primarchs. More will be explained in the Blood Angels Index. I am currently writing/tinkering with a Blood Angels short. That should be what comes out next. After that, the the Ninth Legion Index.


	25. From Fires of Betrayal

**From Fires of Betrayal**

… _dirt red with blood, stone stained by betrayal, sky black with hate._

 _Astartes in blue and white emerge from entry-scorched drop-pods, chainswords and chainaxes whirring with death. Over the vox, he could hear the screams of shock and of the dying from the Salamanders and Death Guard._

 _Must keep moving, must keep moving. Everything was going wrong._

 _A creature of night approached him, bolter raised. He killed the murderer with three bolts, armour and body shredded. The wailing death-cry of Mankind's Unity was deafening._

 _Moving further into the city, all he saw was death, death, death…_

The thud of knocking brought him out of meditative half-sleep. The Space Marine pushed himself up, moving to the door. Opening it, he looked out upon four Astartes of the Sanguinary Guard.

"Make yourself presentable. The Angel requires your presence." He nodded, closing the door. When it opened again, he wore the crimson and black of the Blood Angels, rank epaulets of a captain, and the haunted expression of one who had lost everything.

The Guards escorted him to the Golden Tower, the centre of the fortress-monastery on Baal. Thinking of his homeworld brought not happiness but sorrow. The Ninth Legion had arrived home not in victory or celebration, but to replenish losses suffered on Bellanor. In a single day the Legion had lost a third of its legionnaires. The several thousand on the planet would help replace those now dead, but it wouldn't do so fully. Recruits from Baal Primus and Baal Secundus, the primarch's homeworld, had been transported to Baal itself for integration into depleted companies. Unlike his company, some survived in reduced form. Those companies, like his, that were a handful of Space Marines were to be disbanded; the remnant joined to depleted units that still held a command infrastructure. The thought was bitter but he understood the necessity.

Through the Corridor of Purification were reliefs on two sides. The left relief depicted Sanguinius and followers cleansing the Baal Trinity of mutant hordes, while the right side showed the primarch and the Emperor conquering the stars. It was supposed to encourage whoever walked through, to show them that under the guidance of the Emperor and His sons nothing would stop humanity from becoming the dominant species in the galaxy. Unfortunately, he thought wryly, the reliefs and its designers never thought to think that the Imperium's greatest threat would come not externally, but from within. Just a year ago, it would have seemed impossible.

Now though, three Loyal Legions had been caught in the meat-grinder of Bellanor, with two nearly destroyed. The Space Wolves had attacked Prospero, but failed to kill the Cyclops. News of Fulgrim being declared War Commander swept through the Imperium, encouraging those downtrodden or rebellious to join him. Much had happened in a year. The Exodus, the regrouping at Talas Station, the battles fought to get home, and then the months spent repairing the fleet and taking in Neophytes, rushing them to the rank of full battle-brother and rushing Aspirant to Neophyte. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Nothing was confirmed, but rumour was the Legion would deploy again in a month once repairs were finished. The War Commander would not reach Terra easily, not with the Ninth Legion to fight against him every step of the way.

The Corridor was lined with golden armoured Guards, their safety of the primarch paramount in their minds. Vulkan had fallen, put into stasis to prevent death, but the chances that the Lord of Drakes would live were low. If the Angel were to fall… well, he did not know if the Legion would survive such a tragedy.

Opening the doors before him, the Blood Angel captain stepped inside the Golden Tower, the personal residence of their lord. The Silver Tower was the command centre for Legion operations, the Bronze Tower the centre of training, from newest Aspirant to veteran Astartes, and the Black Tower held prisoners.

The Angel did not sit on his throne, but was to the side, looking at a hololithic projection of the civil war-ridden galaxy. The captain moved to the appropriate distance and took a knee of subservience.

Sanguinius the Angel, the Golden Warrior of Baal and other such highly praised titles, spoke then. "Rise, Captain Gustavius. Come, stand beside me." The pearl-white and black feathers of his wings were beacons to the officer.

He rose from kneeing and walked towards his father. Standing beside him, he felt insignificant, a dust speck on the glory of the Emperors genetic brilliance. Gustavius may be an Angel, but he paled in comparison to _the_ Angel.

"Tell me, what do you see?" The primarch's voice was not unkind, bringing serenity to Gustavius, but he knew this was only one aspect of the Ninth Son. The kind spoken diplomat could become the unforgiving conqueror in but a moment. But there was something different to Sanguinius, something he had that several of his brothers did not. Humanity. They all may have fought for it, the primarchs and their transhuman sons, but Sanguinius was perhaps the closest of them all to it. He represented light in the darkness, hope in times of despair, and so much more.

Gustavius paid attention to the holo before him, his critical eye missing nothing. After a moment's study, he spoke the ugly truth, "We're losing."

Sanguinius nodded, but gestured for his son to continue.

"The White Scars raid and pillage a thousand worlds, their cargo holds full of slaves and riches. Their exploits and insatiable desires have made many swear allegiance to the War Commander, hoping this would save them from the scions of Jaghatai. This usually works, but not always. Their disruption of Imperial supply lines has led to dire consequences for hundreds of worlds." His gaze went to another part of the galaxy. "Ultramar has not been heard from since before the Massacre, their borders blocked by a warp storm of great magnitude, one that is becoming stronger as time goes on. The bulk of the Word Bearers and Iron Hands are believed to be within, laying waste to the Five Hundred Worlds. Elsewhere, in the Arcurean Sector, the Dark Angels and Alpha Legion have begun to contest for dominance with no end in sight. In more central matters, the Eighth Legion acts as the War Commander's vanguard, softening up Fortress Worlds and ensuing such fear and chaos reign that many star systems join Fulgrim, though some worlds, like Murdock, are used as ghastly examples to those that defy the traitors. Driving towards the Segmentum Solar are the Arch-Traitor's principal fleets. The World Eaters protect the flanks, while the Sons of Fulgrim, with Thousand Son and Black Legion forces in support, push towards the Sol System. "

"Accurate observation. Tell me, what do you think of this world." The primarch manipulated the controls, and the galaxy map faded to show a star system, the rune of the Mechanicum above it.

"Forge World Raloxxia Minor, population estimated around eighteen billion, slightly larger than Terra in planetary size but far denser. It orbits the gas giant Raloxxia Major. Since being brought to compliance fourteen decades ago, principal exports had been heavy artillery guns of various types, accompanying shells of all calibres and specialty, alongside necessary replacement parts. Loyalty is to the Arch-Traitor and the Dark Mechanicum."

"Very good, Gustavius, now read this," Sanguinius handed him a data-slate. It detailed import-export ratios, as well as current production for the Forge World alongside any information deemed important by Imperial spies.

After a moment, he spoke. "This must be wrong?"

"Why do you say that?"

"The Raloxxians are importing four times as much as before, yet are only producing a third of what they used to."

"Intercepted reports say that it is due to local loyalist sabotage and faulty production lines."

"Then they are lying, purposeful false statements" Gustavius said matter-of-factly. A ghost of a smile touched the Angel's lips before he motioned him to continue.

"According to this data," he waved the data-slate, "a decade ago, Raloxxia Prime was undergoing a planet-wide industrial upgrade. They were scheduled to finish just months before the Heresy began, so it could not be faulty production lines. And no matter how serious or strong the loyalist resistance is, it wouldn't be able to affect the numbers to this degree. These statistics tell it as if there is open warfare down there, not subterfuge or minor sabotaging."

"Then why lie?"

"To cover something up, most like. Perhaps they are building a Titan Legion, or large warships, or some third option. But," he paused, thinking, "Since the Forge World has only a small Titan Legion, their infrastructure for it wouldn't allow rapid growth, and the planet doesn't sport heavy orbital construction so it would be waste of time and resources to create something with more tonnage than a heavy cruiser. In my opinion, it would have to be the third option."

"Which is?"

"Some kind of super-heavy artillery gun of immense scale and power, likely several. They have the experience, the machinery and the isolation from the frontlines."

"And why would they do that?"

"Because," Gustavius began to feel dread, "when the traitors reach Terra, they will need such weapons to break down the Palace's walls."

Sanguinius nodded again, this time solemnly. The primarch had suspected, but now had his concerns confirmed.

"What would you recommend?"

Gustavius thought for a moment. "Barring a planetary invasion with all assets available, I'd recommend a strike team, no more than ten specialists, possibly less. Infiltrate and sabotage."

Sanguinius moved to his throne. Gustavius followed, standing before the Angel as if in judgment.

"Captain Gustavius, do you know why I called you here?"

"I believe so. My past familiarity with infiltration."

"Correct. We do not have the skills like the Raven Guard, but what you accomplished during our flight home saved thousands of legionnaires. Now, I ask you to save not only legionnaires, but likely the Imperium as well. I ask only for volunteers. I will warn you that the mission amounts to suicide. We cannot risk more Astartes to retrieve you. Do you accept?"

He did not hesitate in answering.

"Yes, sire. I accept."

* * *

Gustavius began to recruit from amongst his brethren. The primarch had allowed him to select eight others to accompany him on this mission; those that could be useful yet their sacrifice would not impede the Legion. The first he found atop the highest level of the Wardens Keep. The black armoured Astartes were unhappy he walked in their private sanctum, but a writ bearing the Angel's orders and signature allowed him access anywhere. The Warden he had in mind was in a viewing chamber, looking out across the rad-wastes.

Gustavius walked in, his presence known by his armour's purring hum.

"Yes," croaked the sitter.

"I have a mission and I want you with me."

"Will I kill many traitors?"

"Yes."

The Warden turned around, his face a ruined mess. One eye was gone, lost at Bellanor, the rest of the flesh fused together by discharge from a traitor's plasma rifle.

"Good," spoke Warden Raze. "I'll join you."

* * *

The second individual was Sergeant Tober, found in the Bronze Tower overseeing newly inducted battle-brothers training. The Blood Angel captain stepped up to beside his old mentor and friend. Tober glanced at him, then back to the two legionnaires fighting the training servitors.

Gustavius watched for a moment, fascinated by their speed.

"Who are they?" he asked.

"Paulus and Gallard, twin true brothers; they are some of my best from this year's induction."

"Their synchronisation with one another is seamless. Servitor difficulty?"

"Max lethality."

"Then they must be very good."

"They are."

"Good, I'll need them."

Tober sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that. If they go, then I will too. I cannot in good conscience let two star pupils go off without my supervision."

"I was hoping you'd say that. Meet me at the western landing pads tomorrow at sunrise."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

After leaving the Bronze Tower Gustavius made way to the Range. Hundreds of legionnaires were practising their aim, but he was only looking for one. Sniper Taggar was cleaning his weapon.

Approaching the sniper, Gustavius stood before the specialist. Taggar looked up.

"Will you join me on a mission to hurt the traitors' war effort?"

Taggar, whose larynx had been ruined by phosphex fumes, nodded.

 _Better than staying here_ , he signed.

* * *

The next one was in the Librarium, studying over a tome. Lighted candles were the only light in which to guide him.

Gustavius opened his mouth but stopped when the psyker spoke.

"No need, captain. I've already had this talk with you." Librarian Cassak looked up. "I will go, of course."

* * *

By the time the star of Baal began to set, Gustavius had recruited Sergeant Tober, Warden Raze, Librarian Cassak, Sniper-Specialist Taggar, battle-brothers Gallard, Paulus, demolitions expert Hesten, and Scout Mykrof. It was an ideal infiltration squad.

The next morning, before boarding the Fire Raptor that would carry them to near-orbit, Gustavius told them the likelihood of retrieval, or rather the lack thereof. He said that whoever wished to remain behind could, and would suffer no censorship. None shirked away, and all boarded the dropship. It carried them from the surface to the scout ship _Athica_ in near-orbit. As the Legion entered the final stages of repairs, _Athica_ , a small, barely armed starship, entered the warp and made way to the Raloxxian System.

The journey would take five weeks. During that time each Space Marine trained and went over the schematics of Raloxxia Minor's primary manufactora centres. The local resistance had narrowed the special construction to the Tassiki Basin. They devised strategies and fall-backs, to react to any scenario, but their first objective when planet-side was establishing contact with local loyalists.

"How will we reach the surface?" asked Tober.

All nine of them were in the scout ship's small briefing chamber, three days into their journey. Gustavius looked at his second then brought up a holo-map of the system. The dirty brown orb of Raloxxia Minor orbited the larger orange and purple Raloxxia Major. Pointing at it, he began to explain.

"Every local year, Raloxxia Minor enters a close proximity zone with its gas giant neighbour Raloxxia Major, a gas giant larger than Sol's Jupiter. This event is known locally as the Disturbance. The two planets' gravity causes massive gravitic disturbance for four days, as well as heavy acid storms across Minor. During this time all interplanetary communications, aside from astropathic and extremely short-range vox, are down. Transportation is the same, as well as augurs. We will approach via dropship just as the Disturbance is beginning, allowing us a brief time to arrive undetected."

"Enemy assets?" inquired Hesten.

"Unknown Skitarii numbers, likely in the hundreds of thousands, plus many combat servitors and likely a small detachment of Knights."

"Legion presence?" asked Raze.

"It appears that there are several squads of Iron Hands on planet, with several hundred garrisoned on the outlying planet Raloxxia Extremis, a cold, barren place."

"Iron Hands? Are they not all with Manus in Ultramar?" Gallard arched an eyebrow in confusion.

"Most yes, but not all. There are known contingents of Iron Hands and Word Bearers across the Imperium, outside of Guilliman's Realm."

"Why are so many Iron Hands on Extremis and not Minor? Why put them so far away?" asked Paulus.

"Unknown, likely local politics; certain factions of the Dark Mechanicum seem more touchy about its independence than the loyal Mechanicum."

Gustavius looked out across his brothers, seeing their determination for the battle to come.

"We will land and rendezvous with the Raloxxian loyalists. They have given us several locations to find them. We will visit them in turn until contact is made. From there we find the weapon or weapons, cripple them and as much advanced machinery as possible. We will attempt retrieval back to the _Athica_ , but if it or we are unable to rendezvous with one another, then we must lay low. We will hide amongst the resistance, assisting them in their guerrilla war, until we can be retrieved or the world liberated. Questions?"

There were none. The briefing was dismissed for the day. Each legionnaire trained or readied their equipment. As Gustavius settled in his quarters to the condition of armour and weapons, he found that his anger and misgivings that has haunted him since Bellanor were beginning to fade. Now… now all that was left was performing his duty one last time.

* * *

The air was heavy with incense and charged with tension.

Fabricator-General Tolkron of Raloxxia sat in his throne of office, the seats of his subordinates filled. In the corner of the room, away from most of the Adepts' eyes but in direct sight of himself, stood the Wanderer, arms folded watching critically. The black and silver livery of the legionnaire's armour clearly announced to all his allegiance.

Tolkron was almost entirely machine; his brain and spinal cord were all that was left of a once weak life of flesh. He had risen high in rank on the Forge World Raloxxia, but had only been a mid-level Adept until news of the Heresy spread like a virus through the Imperium. With news that Sacred Mars was divided by war and Kelbor-Hal assassinated by Imperial Assassins, Tolkron knew that they must join Chrom's faction of the Mechanicum if their traditions and dedication for the advancement of knowledge were to be preserved. The former Fabricator-General and Fabricator Locum of Raloxxia had not thought so, and quickly found themselves terminated. In the chaos that followed, Tolkron installed himself as ruler of the Raloxxia System, and placed those that shared like-minded interests into positions of power.

When representatives from the War Commander arrived months after the Dropsite Massacre, they had found a Forge World loyal to the Phoenician and the Dark Mechanicum. Tolkron had expected to supply the rebellion with Raloxxia's heavy artillery guns, but it seemed Fulgrim had something different in mind. Six super-heavy siege guns were ordered, and the foundations for them had been laid. Legionnaires of the Tenth Legion were tasked by the War Commander and Ferrus Manus to assist in the development and to act as the weapons' last line of defence. At first great strides had been made. Now, almost a year later, the progress of the weapons' construction began running into various problems, subsequently causing the Gorgon's chosen overseer to not be pleased.

Tolkron looked at the Iron Hand, and if he had kept enough of human mannerisms, he might have sighed in relief that it was the Wanderer and not the Ironwrought who stood there. Tolkron stood, his mechanical legs clicking as he moved. It was time to begin.

"The Disturbance is almost upon us. Report on your Forges."

Each Adept, from highest to lowest in station, spoke of how their Forge continued production, despite setbacks ranging from industrial sabotage to assassination of key personnel. The loyalists were making work difficult and were beginning to put the planet entire behind schedule. Each gave answers, each gave excuses. Nonetheless, facts were presented and he must accept them, less he appear weak-willed and unstable before the legionnaire. Orders of random round-ups of possible seditionists, summary executions and more followed. It was all he could do. As the meeting came to an end, he spoke to them one last time.

"Very well," he said. "You are all dismissed." Servos whined, mechadendrites whirred and twisted as the Adepts departed. The Iron Hand remained.

Tolkron's augmetic eyes were expressionless, but the chemical imbalance in his body spoke of annoyance.

"Yes, Wanderer Sullek?"

The Space Marine moved from the dim edges of the room to the full brightness of its centre, and admittedly was an impressive figure to behold. Covering up the armour was a simple charcoal-grey cloak; it denoted the rank of Wanderer and was a sign of the primarch's favour, as it linked any Astartes wearing it to their primarch's past on Medusa. The bolt pistol and combat knife paled to the majestic weapon locked to the Space Marine's back. It was a heavily modified Medusan mag-bow, another symbol of the Sullek's rank. It had been whispered during the Great Crusade that every mag-bow had been created by Manus himself, though the truth of the matter was known only to the Tenth Legion.

When the Wanderer spoke, his voice was still human, odd to hear here in the upper hierarchy of Raloxxia. "The Ironwrought is growing tired of your excuses these past months. Behind schedule is not easily forgiven amongst the Iron Tenth. You must do better or you might find yourself replaced."

Tolkron moved closer to the Wanderer, faded torn red cloak of office trailing behind him.

"You dare threaten me here in my sanctum? On my world?"

Sullek removed his helm, showing one eye that was bionic and the other which was metallic grey, common on his homeworld.

"I dare nothing, merely present facts. Also," the transhuman's features hardened like rock, "this may be your world, but it is Fulgrim's Imperium. You have a degree of sovereignty, as benefitting your organisation and rank, but do not think yourself above the emperor-to-be."

"The Ironwrought needs me-"

"False. We need this world, and if the current leadership does not follow our instructions precisely, well… this world has already experienced a regime change. It can certainly do so again. Another, more compliant leader could easily be selected."

The thought of killing the Iron Hand passed through Tolkron's mind, but he stayed his hand. Killing Sullek would bring a moment's satisfaction, but the Ironwrought would return for inspection after the Disturbance. If he were to find his agent dead, then Tolkron would be killed and replaced.

"Tell the Ironwrought that we will double our efforts, limits will be emplaced on current standard production and other projects will be put on hold. Is this satisfactory?"

Sullek stood there, impassive and silent for a moment. "It is," he said at last. "But there must be more drastic action. I will hunt down the loyalist remnant and remove them from the equation. I will succeed where you and yours failed." Tolkron's protest died in his voice-box at Sullek's next words. "I invoke Article 4 of the Legion's agreement with your world. The loyalists are impeding construction of the super-heavies, and therefore are a threat to them. You have had your chance to finish them off, now it is my turn."

The Iron Hand turned to leave, but stopped in the door's arch.

"Do keep in mind, Fabricator General, that if the Ironwrought is not content with your progress or you try to impede my efforts, he will let _him_ know." The stress on that word warned Tolkron who it would be. Tolkron stared at the Astartes back until Sullek left the chamber and the doors closed.

* * *

Over Raloxxia Minor hundreds of bulk carriers, cargo haulers and more moved to and from the planet during the final day of authorised transport. During the last six hours, warning klaxons and automated caution messages were sent to every ship in orbit. Ships were either berthed in fully enclosed magnetically-shielded orbital docks or the vast landing fields planet-side where they were lowered into the ground for protection.

Long and mid-range augurs were disabled, leaving only auspex, but those would largely be ineffective in distances exceeding one kilometre. As Raloxxia Minor readied itself for the close proximity with Major, sensors did not detect the small unmarked dropship entering orbit near the Tassiki Basin, nor its departure twenty minutes later.

* * *

They moved like ghosts into the metal world of Raloxxia Minor. Minutes after disembarking from the Fire Raptor, they had discovered an abandoned warehouse in the outlying slums of the Basin, far from the heavily inhabited districts of the inner Basin. The warehouse itself was nothing special, rather it was falling apart, nothing valuable within: an ideal locale for hiding temporarily. At least until contact had been made.

Half an hour after landing, Gustavius motioned for the strike team to witness the Disturbance. Minor and Major neared one another and all nine legionnaires felt the increasing pressure come and go. A building of pressure in their inner ears and sense of heaviness resting on their shoulders were the only physical effects. All their sensitive equipment, except their power armours' sensors, which were shielded, had been disabled to preserve them during the opening stage of the Disturbance. As the Disturbance neared its climax, a loud thunderclap rang through the air, piercing and deep. Nothing appeared different. Major dominated the sky, a large multi-coloured gaseous orb. The air felt heavier, but he knew it was not.

Within hours, violent acid storms would pour down, further hampering the traitors' ability of surveillance and communication. Turning to his brothers, the Blood Angel captain ordered them to set up positions while he would go make contact with the resistance.

* * *

It took two days, but at one of the rendezvous points detailed in the mission brief contact had been made. Communiques were quietly, but swiftly, exchanged between the Space Marines and the Mechanicum loyalists. After twelve local hours of hesitant and cautious exchange, it appeared the traitors were clamping down on resistance cells, Gustavius found himself in a hardened underground bunker, surrounded by banks of cogitators and thick, twisting cables. Tober and Raze stood with him, standing before a Mechanicum Adept. Her name, if one could put a gender to the barely human machine before him, was Nhadi. Her tri-augmetic eyes whirred as they looked at them, calculating, observant. Their talk had lasted an hour, now silence reigned in her office.

She tapped her steel tipped fingers against the desk. A left over from her days as flesh? "Your plan risks the integrity of the resistance. Not just the ones in the Basin area, but across the entire planet." Her voice was monotone, a voice-box for a larynx long removed and replaced.

"Yes," Gustavius admitted. "It risks much, but we need for it to happen."

"It will destroy us." It was hard to discern what she was feeling, with her deadpan mechanical voice and lack of facial features. Was her adamant desire to preserve the resistance fading? He hoped so.

"Perhaps. But better this world burn than Terra. The weapons being made here will have the firepower to break down the walls of the Imperial Palace. That cannot be allowed to happen. What do you think will happen to the Mechanicum if Fulgrim wins? I can promise you, it will not bode well for Mars."

Nhadi stared at him for a moment, steel finger still tapping her desk. The tapping stopped and she rose.

"Very well, I will oversee the preparations. Now leave," she said briskly, "I must prepare."

Gustavius nodded and departed the room. His legionnaires, who had waited patiently against the wall, hands on bolters and sword pommels, moved to them.

"She will do it," Gustavius said as they formed a circle. "They will guide us in, using their spies within the Basin. Preceding our inception, they will launch an assault on the Basin's defences, drawing as much of the Skitarii as possible."

They all nodded.

"It will take several days for them to ready, but it will happen. For now, we wait here. I want two on watch at all times, in rotating twenty-four hour shifts.

"Sergeant Tober, I want you to man the primary entryway into this underground maze. Taggar, I want you above, hidden and observant. The reports of increased traitor activity in the area concern me." The two Angels affirmed the order. Gustavius looked at the eight brave souls with him and made a small smile. "It won't be long now."

* * *

Seventeen hours into his watch shift, the last day of the Disturbance, Sergeant Tober checked the security footage over the carefully hidden vid- and pict-capturers. He looked over the grainy monitors, the Raloxxian resistance forced to use leftover equipment and scraps scavenged from junkyards. The footage showed him the interior of the underground Mechanicum hideout, as well as much of the surrounding area outside.

"Any change?" he asked.

The captain on duty, a Skitarii officer named Helex, looked up. If he was annoyed at the hourly question, he gave no sign of it. "No, sir, it is quiet out there."

Tober scanned the screens, seeing a few ground cars and cargo-8s in several vid-feeds but nothing else. "That's what worries me," he said. "Anything on the network?"

The captain checked the data-files and shook his head. "No, sir. Cell Eleven was late in sending its update, but only by sixteen minutes which can easily be blamed on the Disturbance."

"How far away is Cell Eleven?"

"About forty kilometres."

"I see. Keep me informed," Tober said as he turned around to resume his position at the void-sealed blast door that was carefully camouflaged on the other side to prevent detection, whether it be through physical or technological means.

The door clunked as its locks disengaged from the wall and swung open, revealing a recon squad moving in. The seven troopers shook off the acid rain that had pelted their clothing. Their faces were covered in rebreather-masks and protective headwear against the storm. They saluted as they walked by Tober. One seemed surprised, but that was to be expected. Not all, if fact most of the resistance did not know the Emperor's Angels were here.

The door quickly shut behind them.

* * *

The recon team he had trailed for the past two hours disappeared into a half-destroyed foundry. Likely the entrance to an underground bunker lay within.

Wanderer Sullek shifted in his cloak, hidden amongst refuse and industrial waste containers a kilometre away. Opening a link to his fifty-Astartes strong unit located not too far away, supported by some of Tolkorn's supposedly elite Skitarii.

"Sergeant Casgert," he said.

"Sir," came the augmetic voice.

"Rendezvous on me. We have some scum to extinguish."

* * *

Sniper-Specialist Taggar had been monitoring the highway traffic for nearly seventeen and a half hours. Nothing alarming occurred, traffic going to and fro from the Basin's heart to outwards to the outlying districts that housed the hab-units until five Rhinos, thirteen Chimeras, three massive cargo-16s and two Knights thundered off the highway off-ramp to the principal roadway leading to the bunker.

His vox-link, connected to Captain Gustavius, was open and he began clicking in code, his only way to communicate non-physically since Bellanor.

 _Enemy convoy approaching. Heavily armed. Knights, Skitarii and Astartes. Will delay as long as I can_.

* * *

… _long as I can_.

Gustavius looked up from the sewage schematics of Fabricator-General Tolkron's Forge and paused, digesting the information Taggar had sent him.

"Understood," he said. "Brothers," he said on the squad channel. "Traitor convoy is approaching, heavily armed and armoured. Taggar is going to delay them, but we need to move."

They began to gather their weapons and supplies as Gustavius made his way to Adept Nhadi's office. He didn't waste time knocking.

The Adept looked up from her cogitator, mechandendrites tapping away at the keyboard.

"We've been discovered. Traitors are heading here now."

Nhadi stopped tapping away, and her mechandendrites withdrew into the inside of her red robe.

"We have to initiate the attack now. Are your forces ready?" he asked her.

"Only sixty-eight percent are," she responded.

"That'll have to do. Tell the Basin forces to attack the Forge and the others to attack supply depots, railways, and communication hubs."

"Very well. The attack on the Forge won't succeed, though. It isn't enough-"

"It doesn't have to succeed. It just needs to distract."

Nhadi paused, contemplating, her fingers tapping on her desk. She stopped. "I understand. I'll give the order."

"Good. We'll fight our way out."

"No," Nhadi said, moving to the back wall, clustered with spare parts. A small section of the wall shuddered aside, showing a small entrance, just large enough for an Astartes to crawl through. "You and your squad will sneak out here, link up with my second, a tech-priest named Rashadd. He'll be waiting on the other side of this tunnel. Gather your legionnaires."

"You're not coming?"

"No. I've been hiding for months, I won't do so any longer." Something akin to a chuckle escaped her. "If the Raloxxian resistance is to die today, I will die with it. Here, take this," she handed him a data-chip, incredibly small in his gauntlet. "This will upload a virus to the traitors' cogitator system. They'll be unit locked so you will have to upload to each cogitator individually. Now, leave. Gather your legionnaires and leave."

"Thank you, Adept," he bowed his head in respect. She returned it. Gustavius left her office, motioning for his squad to come. "Tober, hurry, we are leaving."

"I'm not leaving, sir."

Gustavius switched to a private link. "Why are you staying, brother?"

"It would take too long to get below to your sub-level." It was true. He was half an hour, if not more, above where the other Baalite legionnaires were. "If I stay here, I can hold them off a bit longer in support of Taggar."

Gustavius hesitated, but he understood what his friend was saying. "Die well, brother."

The link was terminated and Gustavius gathered his men and they left through Nhadi's door, it closing behind them as she saw them off.

* * *

Taggar watched as the traitors disembarked from their vehicles, advancing on where the bunker was hidden. Fifty legionnaires mad up the core of the attacking force, with hundreds of well-armed Skitarii in support. He lined up on an Iron Hand sergeant and waited for the battle to begin. It didn't take long. The loyal Raloxxians began to fire upon their traitorous comrades. Lasfire and autogun bullets shredded through the advancing ranks of enemy Skitarii, but only nicking the paint off Astartes armour.

Taggar's aim was true, reticule over the Iron Hand commander's head, and fired. The bolt was armour piercing and went in and out the traitor sergeant, easily, splattering grey matter and metal over his Rhino from where he stood commanding. Taggar's weapon ejected the empty shell, loading another within half a second. He fired again, killing another Iron Hand. Gun ejected shell and another slid into place.

* * *

Tober fired from the cover of the foundry's walls, killing a half dozen Skitarii. Beside him fought the bunker's security and staff, having departed the bunker. The close confines of the underground base would have favoured the Iron hands, leaving the loyalists best chance at resisting to be above ground in the ruins of the foundry. There would be none to escape, save his squad. All would fight to the death to delay the traitors and make them focus here and not elsewhere. The few support staff not involved with battle were busily burning and purging their records so as not to give away any other loyalist cells located in the Tassiki Basin and beyond.

He emptied the clip into the mass of Skitarii running at him, killing most. Reloading, he kicked one Skitarii, sending him backwards into a support column, chestplate caved in. A traitor Space Marine, carrying a storm shield, advanced on him, shooting from the fire slot. Two loyal Skitarii were blown apart, one of them Captain Helex.

Grimacing, Tober chucked a grenade at the legionnaire, set on a two-second diffuse. The Iron Hand reacted instantly, facing the shield downwards to the grenade to block the blast. It did so, but emerging from the smoke and fire was Tober, gun hovering over the legionnaire's red eye lenses. A single shot dug into the Medusan's cranium and a micro-second later exploded. The headless legionnaire fell backward.

Grabbing the storm shield, Tober withdrew to the foundry's walls, firing as he retreated. More and more loyalists were being killed. One of the Knights charged, but was stopped by several krak grenade launchers hitting its leg, causing it to stumble onto the ground facedown. More grenades and what heavy weapons the loyalists had assaulted the Knight, eventually causing it to explode. The shrapnel tore into the traitors' rear ranks of Skitarii. The other fired from a distance, not wanting to get too close and suffer a similar fate. A smokestack, hit by the Knight's firepower, fell amidst the loyal Raloxxians, killing dozens and stunning over a hundred. The foundry's walls creaked and cracked as the structural integrity weakened.

An Iron Hand emerged from a secondary entrance, shield raised and killing the poorly armed defenders stationed there, when a sniper bolt from behind blew out his chest onto the inside of the shield.

* * *

The second sniper magazine was flicked from the rifle, empty, and a third was rammed home in its place. The targeted legionnaire fell, a thumb-sized hole near his spine, exiting out the chest and carrying with it crimson coloured gore. Tober raised a clenched fist into the air, signalling thanks, knowing Taggar could see him through the smoke and soot. Saving brothers was something Taggar was good at.

Taggar killed two legionnaires and three Skitarii officers when he heard something from behind, a… soft ruffling of a cloak. Turning, he saw an Iron Hand clad in a torn cloak hanging proudly from the Medusan's shoulders. A mag-bow was pointed at Taggar's face.

"Hello, little Angel," the Medusan taunted via his external speakers, his voice a monotone lifeless melody. Taggar reached for the bolt pistol mag-locked to his hip, knowing he was not quick enough but not deigning to die without the attempt and the mag-bow fired.

* * *

Tober looked to the tower where Taggar had been sniping from. That support had stopped nearly twenty minutes ago. He knew what that meant. He also knew that he was about to die. The foundry's defenders all lay dead, only a scant handful had retreated to the bunker, closing the door behind them but that would buy only seconds. The enemy dead was littered amongst the loyal.

Tober's bolter and bolt pistol had run out of ammo, and he was surrounded by six Iron Hands, their shields raised, swords or spears ready, another dozen aimed their bolters at him. Why hadn't they killed him yet?

Skitarii soldiers joined their ceramite masters in aiming their weapons at him. Tober lay on the ground, left leg severed by a power sword, right leg shattered from a krak grenade. Bolt holes dotted his chest and a combat blade was wedged into his abdomen. Blood leaked from him in torrents, not even the Larraman Cells flooding through his bloodstream could stem the flow.

The traitors stood around him, their murdering temporarily halted, and that pause ended as a cloaked traitor approached. Tober knew at once what the legionnaire was: a Wanderer. The Wanderer approached him, kneeling in the rain-drenched mud where blood and oil mixed freely. A serrated blade, similar to Barbaran design, was pulled from a scabbard on the traitor's chest.

Tober expected questioning, but he was made of stern willpower and would resist their tortures. The Iron Hand seemed to sense that. "Pity," the traitor grumbled as the blade pierced Tober's eye into the brain, killing him.

* * *

Gustavius sat in the transport compartment of a cargo-12 as it thudded down the highway towards Tolkron's Forge. Escaping from resistance headquarters seemed dishonourable to some of his brethren, but Gustavius knew that the future would hold no honour, only victory or death. Only war.

The surviving seven members of the original squad sat on canisters and plasteel crates as their vehicle thundered away from the now demolished base. The driver was tech-priest Rashadd, who had been Nhadi's second and now the leading member of the loyalist Mechanicum on the planet. The cargo-12 took an off ramp and descended into one of the many tunnel systems honeycombed through the upper layers of Raloxxia Minor.

Gustavius and Rashadd had spoken earlier. They would infiltrate the Forge using the sewage tunnels. A thought struck him.

"Will there be an enemy presence in the sewers?"

"There shouldn't be, least where you are going. The tunnel you will access officially does not exist. Nhadi oversaw all tunnel construction and sewage for the former Fabricator-General and she knew of this pathway and when the traitors launched their coup she destroyed the only physical copies but one that noted the access tunnel. The last one was with her and I assure you she destroyed it before the traitors got their hands on it."

Gustavius cut the link, pleased. Though that relief at an easy insertion faded as he knew he lost two brothers at the resistance base, one of them a good friend. But even in such loss, he saw an opportunity. That raid undoubtedly cost the traitors some legionnaires and every one that died there would be one less he would face at the Forge.

It took hours to descend to the insertion point located in sub-level 42J, but eventually they arrived. Rashadd removed a hidden access gate, allowing the Blood Angels to sneak into Tolkron's Forge. Rashadd did not come with them. He would lead the assault on the outer defences to distract the traitors. Gustavius knew the chances of Rashadd surviving were low and he knew that the tech-priest would die, so the captain patted the Raloxxian resistance commander on the shoulder and murmured thanks. The gateway closed, enclosing them in darkness.

Now the mission truly began.

* * *

Sullek oversaw his Techmarine and borrowed tech-priests look over the resistance's cogitators and paperwork. Unfortunately, when the Iron Hands had been spotted, the entire closed off database had been purged and scrapped three times, leaving nothing but faint data-echoes that may or may not contain anything pertinent. The paperwork had been set afire and very little had been saved before destroyed. A few loyalists had been captured and interrogated and they spoke of other Space Marines that had used the chaos of the raid to escape, though to where they did not know. The one person who might have known had been Adept Nhadi, but she had committed suicide rather than be taken prisoner. She was thorough too. A plasma pistol had melted her brain and internal cranium micro-cogitator unit, making it unable to retrieve anything from her. Sullek did not enjoy eating grey matter to secure information but he would have done so if there was anything left to consume.

Though he did not what the actions or mission of the Ninth Legion Astartes was, he could guess. He needed to return to the Forge immediately.

Sullek walked out of the bunker complex. Seeing the place secured, as several more companies of Skitarii arrived, Sullek and the remaining Iron Hands made their way back to the Forge. He wished the Disturbance was over already. He needed to contact the Ironwrought on Raloxxia Extremis straight away.

* * *

Hours had passed, the Blood Angel squad having covered much ground, nearing their target. According to resistance intelligence, the super heavy siege engines were being constructed in the deepest levels of the Forge, away from prying eyes and orbital bombardment.

In a traditional assault, it would have taken many hours, if not days, to fight through the Dark Mechanicum's defences to reach the Legion's target. Thanks to Nhadi and Rashadd, they were able to slip in undetected. More crawling, hunched walking, and quiet infiltration bore fruit when Gustavius saw the mission targets for the first time.

The cavern where they were located was nearly twenty kilometres by fifteen, a tall and dominating command tower located in the centre for supervision, and housed within the cavern were six artillery pieces that dwarfed all others. Not even the genius or ambition of Perturabo and his warsmiths had constructed something so arrogant in design or purpose. Each siege engine was a kilometre and a half long, the barrel itself seven hundred metres long and judging by the muzzle size it could fire a 5300mm shell. The siege engines were on mobile tracks, allowing some form of mobility, but Gustavius saw heavily modified vehicles which would assist in moving the vehicle via thick cabling. Constructing so deep in the earth would have seemed odd if not for that fact that the ceiling above, over five kilometres away, could be opened and dozens of similar levels would retract to allow the airlift of the siege guns to occur with specially designed mass haulers to transport them to Dark Mechanicum starships. Thankfully, it appeared only one gun was completed, at least externally, and the rest were in various stages of completion. Materials and equipment littered the ground all over the area, power cabling situated above the ground to allow vehciles to travel about freely without risk of running over an electrical powerline.

Hundreds of enginseers, tech-priests and servitors worked in the cavern, sparks from plasma and las welders flying into the air. Gustavius did not see any guards, which was welcome news; though he was sure some priests could fight back ably, unknown weapons hidden beneath their dirty red robes. The Space Marines, laden with explosives, descended into the ironworks. Servitors were ignored as they seemed to be sub-par intelligent at best but enginseers and tech-priests were killed as silently as possible, their corpses hidden amongst equipment. All the while they laid melta-bombs on the siege engines. Mykrof was able to sneak onto the barrel of several cannons to place meltas at critical junctures to cause maximum damage.

They hurried, knowing the Raloxxian assault would happen any minute now, if not already having occurred. It was hard to tell due to the cavern being so far away from any perceived threats. The planting and arming of explosives proceeded for some time but eventually the enemy had found out about the infiltrators in their midst.

An enginseer had turned a corner, her approach covered by the rumbling of a line of cargo-8s rumbling by, heavy with metal. She had been looking at a data-slate when the corpse of a co-worker fell to the ground, a throwing knife from Raze jutting from the co-worker's chest near the heart. The enginseer screamed; her voice still human and ringing loud in the cavern, echoing to alert nearby traitors. Quickly alarms began to ring, loud klaxons and bursts of what Gustavius assumed was lingua-technis.

"Go loud," he said, shooting his bolter and watching as the explosive bolt shell ruptured her chest cavity. "Plant explosives on anything that looks valuable. Mykrof, Hesten, Gallard and Paulus, finish planting explosives on the rest of the siege engines and anything else you see here. Cassak and Raze, with me to the command tower." He looked at his brothers, proud of them. "I am overriding all of our explosives to detonate either in one hour or upon my death."

They nodded, ready.

"Die well, brothers."

"Die well, captain." The two groups split up, heading towards their objectives.

* * *

Fabricator-General Tolkron watched as the Raloxxian resistance launched a massive attack against his Forge. Though his soldiers took heavy losses in holding back the loyalists, Tolkron was not worried. Judging by his analytical mind, the loyalists would do little damage to his Forge, less than eight percent which could be quickly repaired. He would gladly take eight percent Forge damage if it meant the loyalists in the Basin were destroyed. The weather had cleared somewhat, the Disturbance being in its final stages, and reports of attacks from resistance cells on Dark Mechanicum facilities and infrastructure annoyed him somewhat, but again if the resistance was destroyed such minor inconveniencies would be well worth it.

His good mood was interrupted by a binaric blurt from his adjutant.

My lord Fabricator-General, the siege engines are under attack!

What?! he demanded, turning to bring up visual feeds of the cavern onto his primary vid-monitor.

Ninth Legion Astartes have infiltrated the cavern, killing the work crews and setting explosives.

This dread news was confirmed as he watched Space Marines in the colours of Sanguinius wreak damage on a year of hard labour and heavy investment.

Though he hated to, Tolkron opened a vox-link to Sullek and informed the Wanderer. He was only half-surprised to find that Sullek was already nearly there, accompanied by all surviving Iron Hands and many of the battle robots stationed on Raloxxia Minor. If the loyalists were stopped, Tolkron might live. If not… then there would another Fabricator-General for the Forge World soon enough.

* * *

Gustavius decapitated a heavily armoured Skitarii officer that was protecting the doorway into the command tower's central hub. Bursting in, they eliminated the two dozen tech-priests and servitors. Four battle robots were supposed to protect the staff, but quickly found themselves destroyed by well-placed shots from Gustavius, Cassak and Raze. The other two left the room to take their positions in separate corridors on different levels, both leading to the command tower's centre.

Gustavius went to the main control cogitator console. Inserting the data-chip, it quickly found data-records for the siege engines, their schematics, progress reports and testing. The data-chip began to delete it all, and then inserted a virus to corrupt whatever files might have been left over. That done, he pulled the data-chip out and physically destroyed the cogitator with several shots from his bolt pistol, sparks and small fires erupting within, the unique smell of electrical fire emanating potently. They doubtless had backups elsewhere, but anything and everything must be exploited to hurt the enemy. The hundreds of Dark Mechanicum personnel they had killed would hurt any future effort to construct heavy siege engines later on.

Gustavius moved onto the next cogitator to repeat the process.

* * *

Battle robots began to deploy in their hundreds, commanded only by a handful of Iron Hands. Wanderer Sullek noted this and blink-clicked it off his helm's visual feed. He knew he faced seven remaining Angels, with four in the cavern attaching explosives to the priceless super heavies, while three more were in the command tower. The whole cavern ran off a locked data-system, independent of the Forge's other projects so the damage being done there was more so than it typically would have been.

While the battle robots would hunt down the four in the cavern, he would take the ones in the command tower. From vid-captures, he saw who he was soon to face. One was clearly an officer. One was clad in Chaplain-black colour. Wardens, the IX calls them. A threat to be sure, but the one that worried Sullek the most was the Librarian.

The Iron Tenth used Librarians within its ranks as they were undeniably effective, vital even, in warfare, but that did not stop Ferrus Manus from disliking the order and their abilities. The Gorgon, inspired by artefacts from the Dark Age of Technology, and using his vaunted intellect crafted an anti-psyker device that once donned would allow the wearer to be 'invisible' to a psyker's aetheric sight. Called the Masks of the Gorgon, Sullek put one onto his helm, it magnetically locking into place. The front of the helm became covered by a smooth surface where acid etched algorithms and sigils resided to ward off the witch and the daemon. The spiked portion that dotted the top part of the Mask focused the energy necessary to become immune to warp-based attacks.

None of the other Astartes had one, for the Masks were incredibly rare, but as a Wanderer, chosen by Manus and assigned to the Ironwrought, Sullek had the great honour to carry one.

Now it was time to kill Angels.

* * *

Librarian Cassak saw the traitors via his witch-sight before he heard them with Mark IV autosenses. Natural eyesight had long evaded him in the waning years of the Great Crusade. His gift resided not any visible forms of attack or defence like lightning or fire but showed him what would happen in the next thirty seconds, allowing him to base strategy off that. The range for his gift was not far-reaching, the reason why he could not warn Gustavius or the resistance of the traitors arriving to the hidden base because he could not 'see' it as it was too far away from his range.

But here in the command tower, he could sense the enemy approaching. The first Iron Hand to emerge from the corner fell to the ground, dead by bolt fire. The next two were killed by an expertly placed grenade. Another three were killed by his staff's power-field enabled physical blow when he closed with them.

Killing six traitors and knowing six more were on their way made him pleased, which made the mag-bow bolt that lodged itself in his throat a shocking surprise. When a figure with odd helm ornamentation fell from the ceiling, landing crouched; Cassak could still not see him but could hear the thud of ceramite boots and the hum and _thumpff_ of the mag-bow firing again.

* * *

Raze knew something befell Cassak when the sounds of combat ceased and his brother did not report the events. The six Astartes that emerged from the corridor's stairwell immediately were fired upon by him. One died immediately, bolts tearing through armour, augmetics and flesh with ease. Three more died as they attempted to corner him. The last one he killed died with Raze's Crozius Arcanum bisecting him. A lowly battle-brother and another that had remained hidden killed him, one with bolter fire and the other from a mag-bow.

Raze clattered the floor, nearly dead, and spoke quickly as the Wanderer raised his boot.

"Captain, two more-"

The Wanderer's boot fell.

* * *

Gustavius finished uploading the data-chip's virus when Raze voxed him, and when the door opened he opened fire. The Iron Hand that went down was the legionnaire, but the one behind shrugged off the shots. Some of his shots, well placed, only saw oil spill out, not blood.

One shot deformed the mag-bow, but the Iron Hand rushed him, knocking aside his half-empty bolt pistol, jabbing a blade into Gustavius' primary heart. The Wanderer wrenched Gustavius' helm off and head butted him.

"You have caused me many problems, Blood Angel." The accent was thick and rough, very Medusan. "I'm surprised you pretty curs knew about this," the Wanderer gestured towards the plexiglass window overlooking the cavern. Gunfire exchanged down there between the Blood Angels and the traitors hunting them. Over the course of uploading the virus, he had been informed by Mykrof that Paulus and Gallard had died, surrounded by the bodies of two dozen battle robots. Hesten had been wounded badly and was covering Mykrof's escape. The charges had been set on most of the siege engines. It would have to be enough.

"Your charges will be discovered. Your brethren hunted down." The traitor punched Gustavius' bare face, breaking his nose and cheekbone. The hand was augmetic judging by the force of the punch. "You've lost. And in the end, we will win."

The Wanderer raised the jagged blade, aiming it at Gustavius' forehead.

"Well," Gustavius slurred, his teeth having bitten through his tongue. His neck armour drenched in gore. "Sometimes the only victory is depriving your enemy of one."

The blade fell, the explosions began.

* * *

The Ironwrought stood in the Fabricator-General's chamber, hands clasped before him. Kneeling beside him was Fabricator-General Tolkron, red robe discarded, mechandendrites ripped from their sockets.

The two psykers before him, their flesh warped together and both murmured in agony. A purple-blue mist flowed from their mouths, forming a shadowy figure before them. That figure was only half-formed. Even most of a galaxy way, with countless astropathic calls and warp storms crisscrossing the Immaterium, especially the formidable Ruinstorm in between them, the signal was strong.

The figure solidified, looking almost akin to a hololith projection, albeit a grainy and flowing one.

Ferrus Manus, Primarch of the Tenth Legion, stood silent for perhaps a minute. His mere presence seemed to make the air heavier. The Ironwrought had not seen his father in person since prior to the Shadow crusade that stormed across Ultramar. Despite that, this warp-made projection was… accurately displayed his lord father's authority.

"Speak."

That single word made Tolkron flinch.

"A Blood Angel incursion occurred, sire."

"When?"

"Three days ago. They arrived just prior to the Disturbance. Four of the Hephaestus-class super heavy siege engines are destroyed in their entirety, one damaged beyond all recovery and the last one was lightly damaged. Can be repaired to former state then finished for deployment in four years. It will be easier and quicker to dismantle it and begin anew."

"Sullek?"

"Dead, as is the entire legionnaire contingent."

Manus did not respond for some time.

"Ironwrought."

"Yes, sire?"

Manus looked at the kneeling Dark Mechanicum leader. "Kill him."

Before Tolkron could respond, the Ironwrought's inactive power sword decapitated the Fabricator-General. The metal encased head rolled across the floor. The Adepts in the room stared at it but none were surprised, they had all known what would happen at this meeting.

"You failed me, my Ironwrought."

"Sire, forgive me-"

"Forgiveness?" the Gorgon's voice thundered. "If this was a universe of forgiveness, then we would never have to wage this war of dethronement. But this isn't, and we are." Manus looked at the assembled Adepts. "Adept Kos'ker."

The named Adept bowed. "Lord?"

"Due to the instability of Raloxxia Minor's Mechanicum, I hereby appoint you as the Fabricator-General of your world. As a precaution, the Ironwrought will act a military protector of the Raloxxia System, under authority of the War Commander."

Kos'ker bowed again, saying thanks. Kos'ker might be the new Fabricator-General but he would be nothing more than a figurehead. The Ironwrought would rule this system.

The primarch turned his attention back to his chosen representative.

"You stay here, everyone else, leave us." The Gorgon's tone promised that their talk would not be pleasant.

All but the Ironwrought left the room.

When the doors closed, the Ironwrought pressed a small rune hidden on his gauntlet. The voice-scrubbers and distorters would make sure none would discern what passed in the chamber. Two legionnaire Librarians standing outside the door would make sure none could listen in telepathically.

Manus waited for a moment, then clapped twice.

"Well done, my son. Well done, indeed."

The Ironwrought was pleased to hear that. Thanks from his lord primarch were few and far between.

"Sanguinius, my wise brother, ever the vaunted strategist. Sanguinius the Angel, Sanguinius the Golden Warrior, and Sanguinius the Fool." The Gorgon cracked a smile. At the very least, that's what the Ironwrought assumed.

"It was a good plan, sire. To leak the information of the siege engines to Sanguinius, making him focus on this one target, distracting from him possibly finding about our other Hephaestus construction sites."

"Sanguinius will think that we will have to start from scratch. Few know about our other two sites." Manus looked at his silver coloured hands. "In war, sacrifices have to be made." He looked up. "Within three years, we will have twelve super heavy siege guns ready for Terra. For the Palace." Manus tilted his head. "The war will be won there with those weapons. The War Commander knows of you and your successes, Ironwrought, and the truth of them."

Manus' head turned and looked to his left. When he turned back to his son, he became his traditional curt self.

"Lorgar calls for battle. For the War Commander."

"For the War Commander," Ironwrought said, the warp-mist dissipating away and the two conjoined psykers slumped to the ground. Their breathing had stopped. Losing a battle, no matter if done purposefully, left a sour taste in his mouth, but the little defeat would go a long way towards winning the war.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** This short was a pain to write and this is the fourth iteration. Been working on this for months now, off and on. Anyways, it is done and the concept I really like. Next update will be the Blood Angels Index.


	26. Blood Angels

**Blood Angels – Noble and Pure**

 _"Darkness encroaches, the light dims, and the enemies of Man clamour at our borders. The Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists build and man our walls, the Space Wolves hunt the traitors in our midst, but it is the Blood Angels who remind us of a better time. A time we have forgotten, but hopefully a time that will come again. May the Angel watch over us all as the Dark Millennium comes to an end."_

 _-High Lady Sera Baksza, in council, Year of Our Most Holy Imperial Majesty 999.M41_

 **Origins-**

In the long annals of the Imperium of Man, few have had a pedigree as impressive as the Blood Angels. Ferocious and relentless against their enemies, kind and loyal to their allies, and wise in leadership are only examples of all that the Blood Angels were, are and forever will be. Even as the Dark Millennium comes to a close, and the hordes of xenos, heretic and daemon clamour at the foundations of Emperor's Realm, the Blood Angels remain steadfast in their ten thousand year duty. But to understand the noble scions of Sanguinius, first that beloved primarch himself must be understood.

The Baal System sported three Old Earth-like worlds where terraforming processes were unneeded, a rarity in the vast expanse of space. These worlds were Baal, Baal Primus and Baal Secundus, the latter two more akin to oversized moons compared to the much larger Baal of which they orbit.

It was here upon these worlds, many thousands of years before the founding of the Imperium that ark ships filled to the brim with refugees arrived to, escaping the destructive wars that plagued the galaxy at that time. While all three were habitable, only the two moons were considered paradise worlds, lush with bountiful forests, teeming rivers and large, life-rich oceans. The planet Baal, though habitable, was more akin to a reddish hued desert, similar to Mars in its early centuries of terraforming many millennia ago. To the moons went the rich and privileged; to the planet, the dregs and poor. The moons had a monopoly on technology and medicines, and the planet had an abundance of natural resources. For centuries a stable balance was maintained, with resources, riches, goods and services exchanged to maintain the status quo.

However, it was not meant to last. A war, of which none now know the name or origins but is simply referred to as the Desolation, saw all three worlds become battlegrounds where viral and atomic weaponry were used en masse, killing billions, leaving the survivors to scavenge amongst the ruins of their civilisations for the bare necessities to survive in their newer, far more dangerous environment.

Thousands of years would pass until the arrival of the Emperor's Ninth Son. The Ninth Primarch, his drop-pod breaking through the irradiated atmosphere of Baal Secundus like a god's fiery descent to the mortal plane. The pod landed on what was swiftly renamed Angel's Fall in the following years, and it was here that the infant primarch was discovered by genetically pure humans of The Blood tribe.

 _Asteos looked at the rad-counter built into his haz-suit's forearm. The radiation was high, but safe enough for a time, at least. He trudged through the knee high red dust, wary of any predators that hid in its depths. His companions trailed behind him, one cursing as he looked at the counter._

" _You are a fool, Asteos," spoke Kalar, the words said almost routinely, their bite smoothed over by their long friendship and camaraderie. "There is nothing here."_

" _There is!" he insisted, "I saw something fall from the sky."_

" _So, a meteor, then. And what of it, they are common enough every few decades."_

 _Asteos shook his head and continued forward. His friend cursed again but did walk with him, motioning for the rest of their foraging party to do so too. They walked for over two hours, the radiation ticking into more dangerous levels. Eventually, not even The Blood's most resistant suits would protect them out here in these desolate rad-wastes. Eventually, Asteos had to face the reality that whatever he saw was forever lost somewhere in the deep deserts. He turned around defeated, facing Kalar. The other Blood smirked in satisfaction but that smirk quickly disappeared and the other man became slack jawed. Asteos turned, hand on his rusty autogun but he too stopped, awed by what stood before him. A figure, a boy really, stood there with pearl white wings, dotted with occasional black and crimson feathers. The angelic figure regarded them, unafraid of the armed men and women, and seemingly unaffected by the area's high radiation._

" _What… what are you?" Asteos croaked, knowing that he appeared ragged before a being such supreme majesty and beauty._

 _The angel looked at him; head cocked and spoke two words that would forever change the tri-worlds of Baal, though Asteos knew not this at the time. The angel said, his voice akin to golden silk and flowing water, so pure was its melody and such steel in its intensity._

" _The future."_

The primarch, quickly named Sanguinius the Angel by those that found him, was brought before the governing leadership of the genetically pure tribe of humans known as The Blood. Some on the council argued that the angelic wings of the primarch were a clear sign of mutation, and therefore should be eliminated lest he prove a danger to The Blood, but clearer heads prevailed that day, much to benefit of the Imperium. Sanguinius was quickly inducted into The Blood and within a scant few years became the sole, undisputable leader. Under his leadership, the pureblood tribes began to fight back against the mutant hordes that dominated their moon, purging with gun, sword and fire.

It would take nearly a decade, but at the Battle of Angel's Fall, the last of the mutant tribes fought against their pureblood cousins in a great battle to dwarf all others previously fought since the Desolation. After weeks of battle, with corpses piling atop one another, the Angel of Baal Secundus emerged victorious, the mutants having been exterminated.

Their euphoria of victory was short-lived, however, as hundreds of dropships descended to the moon mere days after the victory over the mutants. Aboard the first dropship to land on Baal Secundus was the Emperor of Mankind who revealed Himself as Sanguinius' father. Unlike many primarchs, the Angel did not dispute the statement or challenge the Emperor, seeing the truth in his newfound father's eyes, and immediately knelt, pledging eternal loyalty and service.

The Emperor quickly introduced Sanguinius to the Legion created from his genome. The Ninth Legion, numbering a scant ten thousand as the Great Crusade was still in its early stages, mustered in formation, proud to stand before their primogenitor. It was on that day the Ninth Legion was renamed the Blood Angels, and their first campaigns fought beside their gene-sire were the campaigns of cleansing waged against the mutant tribes of Baal and Baal Primus. The tri-worlds of Baal were made secured and purified, their pureblood human populations now the undisputed masters of their environments. From these tribes and their sons, the Legion's future resided in. With Baal now secure, the Golden Warrior of Baal led the Blood Angels out-system to fight alongside the other Legions, scattered amongst the stars.

 **Great Crusade-**

The Blood Angels fought at the forefront of the Crusade and quickly established themselves as elite assault troops, comparable to the World Eaters. Many hundreds of worlds were conquered by the sons of Sanguinius, but countless more were brought into the Imperial fold via more peaceful matters, showcasing the genius of Sanguinius and his chosen diplomatic representatives.

Throughout the Great Crusade, the Blood Angels fought alongside many of their brethren, notably the Luna Wolves, Imperial Fists, Space Wolves and White Scars, all whose primarchs Sanguinius was close to. Alongside military campaigns, the Angel worked alongside Jaghatai Khan and Magnus the Red to form the Librarians. Though Magnus was undoubtedly the strongest primarch psyker in skill and raw power, and Jaghatai's Stormseers were highly vaunted battle-psykers, it was Sanguinius who popularised the organisation using his standing with the other Legions and primarchs to help spread it to most of the Space Marine Legions within decades of its conception.

Though many feats were accomplished in the expansion of Imperial territory, there was a dark secret that only the Legion's elite knew of: the Red Thirst, a violent and hyper-aggressive craving for blood and violence. This affliction struck at random, targeting Astartes who not even a day earlier would have been the model legionnaire. After occurring several times, showing that it was not a random quirk as was hoped, a protocol was established. The Wardens and the First Company would surround the Space Marine suffering from the Red Thirst and the Angel would personally go to his son, ask for forgiveness though the legionnaire's brain functions had devolved to a blood-crazed primal level, and then execute them himself. Afterwards, the Apothecaries would take the corpse and study it, desperately trying to find ways to reverse the Red Thirst or find a cure for it. It is unknown how many legionnaires fell to the Red Thirst during the Great Crusade, but Inquisitorial analysts predict it was several hundred at the very least. Sanguinius began to feel an increasing burden after each and every execution of one his sons.

The Golden Warrior hid the genetic shame that haunted his offspring during the Great Crusade's entirety, though it was rumoured that Horus Lupercal and Magnus the Red knew of the affliction but kept their brother's secret from their father, as previous examples in Imperial history have shown the Emperor's intolerance to Legion-wide gene-seed instability.

 _Sanguinius watched as his most experienced Apothecaries studied the preserved corpse of Battle-brother Quinnell, their arms covered to the elbow in gore, surgical tools laid neatly beside them. They searched everywhere, hunting for what caused the Thirst to strike this poor legionnaire. Another Apothecary was watching the readouts that detailed the harvested progenoid glands held in a preserving canister, with micro-needles and wiring inserted into it, investigating every piece of flesh within and without._

 _Minutes became hours and hours neared half a day before the Apothecary Primus looked up, pulled down his surgical mask and shook his head at his primarch, signalling that nothing unordinary was found within the cadaver. The Apothecary near the progenoid glands looked back and mirrored the motion. The data-slate clutched in his hands contained all information from the gene-seed inquiry but would reveal nothing, this Sanguinius knew, as the previous forty-six surgeries had provided nothing at all, nothing but more questions and, though quietly, fear._

 _Raldoron, Azkaellon, and Dahka Berus stood beside him, all disappointed in another failure. They had kept the Red Thirst secret from their own brothers, and would continue to do so per his orders, but Sanguinius could tell each legionnaire lost hurt them, but that pain was a mere shadow to his own._

 _They stood in silence for a moment, letting the failure wash over them, shouldering it upon their already overburdened shoulders. He leaned forward and pressed the intercom rune that connected the observation deck to the surgery room._

" _Incinerate everything."_

 _The Apothecaries bowed and left, taking all recorded material out as the incinerators lowered from the ceiling, flamers spitting out fire that covered the room, quickly becoming an inferno that raged for ten minutes. When the flamers cycled off, what once was a naked, cut open legionnaire now only ash remained. Servitors waded in, scooping up the ash to be deposited into deep space. Even the glands, the key to creating new Space Marines, a Legion treasure, were destroyed. Whatever lingered in those glands was a danger to the future of the IX. He did not regret burning, but he regretted why it was necessary._

 _No matter what though, no matter how long it took, no matter the cost, he would find a cure to the Red Thirst._

Nonetheless, despite the troubles that weighed on him, the Angel became a beloved and popular figure in the Imperium, nearly matching Horus and the Emperor. Besides fighting alongside a majority of his brethren, Sanguinius fought beside his father almost as much as Horus. So it came as no surprise that the Angel was selected by the Emperor to not only partake in the Ullanor Crusade, but also to join Him, Horus and Dorn in the ground assault against Warboss Urlakk Urg.

The World Eaters and Ultramarines attacked the borders of Urlakk Urg's empire; the White Scars sailed deep into Ork territory, drawing millions of xenos to chase them; the Luna Wolves, Imperial Fists and Blood Angels landed on the Ork capital world with the Emperor. As Dorn and his Fists fortified the landing zone and established potential fall-back positions, the IX and XVI surged forward towards the Warboss.

 _The dead were piling up, both greenskin and the legionnaire. Screams of beast, thundering of bolters, revving of chain weapons, the vibrant hum of power weapons, and the roar of engines dominated the battlefield. Azkaellon, the Exalted Herald of Sanguinius, commander of the Sanguinary Guard, darted through the ranks of foul xenos, cutting them down with his gilded Glaive Encarmine. Ork blood coated his golden armour, their corpses crunching under his ceramite and plasteel boots, but it did not stop him. On the other hand, it drove him forward, basking in the glory at hand._

 _Sanguinius fought in front of him, only a few metres away, carving a path with the mighty gold and silver sword_ Regis _, arcs of blood spraying into the air with each swing. Other members of the Guard waded through the mass of greenskins, some falling in death but the majority continued to protect the Angel's flanks. Overhead a fighter wing strafed the ridge the Orks were concentrated on, killing hundreds in their single attack run, such were the xenos numbers._

 _Not far to the east was the Lupercal, cutting through the xenos with ease, the Talon's powerfield cackling as it tore through armour and flesh and bone. A banner of the Luna Wolves hung over the white and black legionnaires as they pummelled through the greenskin ranks. In between the Angel and Lupercal forces was Him. The Emperor Himself, flanked by Legio Custodes, eased through the battlefield, leaving a trail of dead Orks in His wake. The Emperor's fiery sword cut through a dozen large, thickly muscled Orks, and raised His sword to rally the Imperial forces._

 _They all roared with imminent victory as they neared their target. Azkaellon knew, in that moment, that nothing would compare to this day. This was a day that would solidify the Imperium's hold on the galaxy, ensuring Mankind's dominance for all time. He impaled one Ork, kicking another out from under itself and stepping hard on its face, feeling the skull cave in. Sidestepping an aggressive, if poorly timed, swing from an unpowered non-chained axe, he cut off the arms of the attacking greenskin before shooting it with his wrist mounted bolters. As the smell of gunfire faded, he yelled for victory as the forces of Mankind advanced, unstoppable in their might._

Ullanor ended in an important strategic Imperial victory, scattering the remnants of Urg's empire to the solar winds. At the subsequent Triumph, Horus was named Warmaster and few were gladder for the Sixteenth Primarch than Sanguinius. Even the news of the Emperor's imminent return to Terra did little to hamper the Angel's spirits. It was Sanguinius who suggested to his closest brother that the Luna Wolves be renamed the Sons of Horus, as an example of Horus' authority and power, but the Warmaster declined to do so, not wishing to antagonise those primarchs who were unhappy with his vaunted position.

Soon after, the Council of Nikaea was convened to decide the fate of all psykers in the Imperium, specifically those within the Legiones Astartes ranks. Sanguinius supported the continued usage of Librarians, going so far as the defend Magnus but it was to little avail against the ire of Russ and Corax. The humiliation suffered by the Crimson King via the Emperor's Edict seemed overly harsh by Sanguinius, and the Angel spoke privately with his father but the decision had been made. The Librarian Compromise was accepted, the Edict passed, but the Thousand Sons and their primarch's reputation plummeted while suspicions and criticisms against them rose sharply.

As Horus became accustomed to being Warmaster, the Great Crusade continued apace for several years without incidence until word reached Sanguinius' Red Tear that Horus was mortally wounded on a moon called Davin and was being rushed to Terra for healing. Not long after came reports of Curze's unsanctioned genocides against Imperial worlds, which called for an immediate and total response, and Magnus' violation of the Nikaean Edict.

Dorn, using his position as Emperor's Praetorian, ordered Sanguinius to hunt down and eliminate Konrad Curze. The Angel, having long disliked Curze and despised the Night Haunter's methods, solemnly agreed that the Eight Son must be neutralised. Calling together the entire Ninth Legion, minus some forces garrisoning Baal and other important worlds, the Blood Angels began to hunt down the Night Lords. The news that Magnus was to be arrested by the Space Wolves greatly unsettled Sanguinius, but he had to focus on command of the multi-Legion Vengeance Armada.

 **The Heresy-**

The Vengeance Armada arrived to the Bellanor System, joined unexpectedly by Lorgar and half the Word Bearers on the system's outer edge. From there the enlarged Armada headed towards Bellanor IV, the Night Lords having concentrated themselves on the planet's capital of Rose City. Sanguinius, in conjunction with Fulgrim's invaluable insight, developed a plan that would trap the Night Lords in the city and see their heart pierced by a mass drop-pod and dropship assault.

However, that is not what happened. The first wave secured many of their objectives, awaiting the second wave but when the Emperor's Children, Word Bearers, World Eaters and the Typhon-led Death Guard fired upon the Salamanders and loyal Death Guard, the dream of Unity was forever shattered. Over the course of the day, the loyalists were mowed and cut down, tens of thousands dead before effective resistance could be erected around the Serenity Spaceport. Sanguinius and Vulkan led the resistance, holding off the traitor hordes as the loyalist fleet in orbit concentrated over Rose City. With the Spaceport secured, ship after ship flew between the Spaceport and the fleet above it, evacuating as many legionnaires as possible.

 _Sanguinius flew over the battlefield, bellowing orders and cutting down traitors. He landed in the centre of a half dozen World Eaters,_ Regis _cutting through armour with ease. He looked out across the hastily-made battlements. The dead of several Legions were scattered about, two lying over large, block-like ceramite blocks._

" _Vulkan!" he screamed. No answer replied to the shout. Sanguinius fired his wrist-mounted bolter at approaching Emperor's Children, the name a biting irony now, and they fell, too. His Sanguinary Guard flanked him, their jet packs allowing them to keep pace with him. Running with them were the remaining members of the Pyre Guard, Vulkan's protectors. They had been separated and now searched with the Blood Angel Primarch to find their own gene-sire._

" _Sire," said Azkaellon. "We must withdraw. There are only a handful of dropships left for the evacuation. Captain Ehrlen has readied his men to cover our retreat. We must go, now."_

" _Not until we find my brother." Whatever Azakellon's response was became silenced by a bunker exploding, three Blood Angels and a Death Guard legionnaire reduced to gore and broken armour._

 _A Spartan tank come rumbling over rubble down the street, its twin-linked lascannons glowing red and cooling down. A Sanguinary Guardsman fired an armour piercing krak rocket, well placed, that saw thick black smoke rising from the front, already previously damaged. Another rocket saw the tank burn heavily. It exploded after a moment, its las batteries having been compromised._

 _Sanguinius took flight once again, his Guard following, with Vulkan's Astartes not far behind. It did not take long to find Vulkan; they merely had to follow the bodies with the tell-tale signs of being killed by a power hammer. World Eater, Word Bearer, Death Guard, Night Lord and Emperor's Children corpses surrounded the Drake Lord as he fought another being, a primarch._

 _Angron, the Red Angel, the Unbroken Gladiator, threw Vulkan to the ground. The power hammer skittered across the ground, the severed hand still gripped tightly around its hilt. Despite a primarch's incredible healing properties, the Eighteenth Primarch had deep gouges in both armour and flesh, right hand gone and blood pooling around his wounded figure. Angron, suffering wounds of his own but not as severe, neared Vulkan with chainaxe revved. The Eater of Worlds' Devourers stood nearby; likely ordered not to interfere._

" _Angron!" Sanguinius yelled as he dropped from the air. The heavily muscled primarch turned, and power sword met primarch-built chainaxe. That quick and sudden strike forced both primarchs to separate. The Devourers began to engage the descending Sanguinary Guard, and with the Pyre Guard not too far behind the numbers would be roughly matched._

 _Vulkan, his wounds beyond dire, waved his remaining hand. "Brother," he rasped, coughing up blood. "Leave. Run." Sanguinius ignored him, readying his blade to fight arguably one of the most skilled close combat primarchs in the Imperium. Angron may not have Russ' or the Lion's calculation but he was stronger than both, and despite his bulk the Twelfth Primarch was incredibly fast._

 _Angron studied Sanguinius for a moment before taking a combat stance. "Red Angel versus Angel of Blood. It is almost poetic." Sanguinius ignored him as well. Angron bent his head in acknowledgement, readying for the fight. Angron and Sanguinius charged one another, their weapons raised._

As the loyalists were evacuating, Vulkan had been cut off from the main loyalist force, driving Sanguinius to find him. The Angel did so, but found his brother near-death, fighting against Angron. Sanguinius and the Nucerian primarch fought a climatic engagement that saw both wounded but alive. In the midst of the duel, the Salamander Pyre Guard lifted their dying primarch and carried him back to safety. Sanguinius and his Sanguinary Guard retreated once Vulkan had been secure.

Aboard the last departing dropship was Sanguinius and the mortally wounded Vulkan, their respective bodyguards greatly depleted. The moment the dropship arrived into one of the Red Tear's many hangar bays, the IX flagship broke orbit with the rest of the Imperial fleet. The loyalists broke through the traitor lines and made way to the nearest Mandeville point, escaping into the warp. The fleet arrived to Talas Station, a refit-and-resupply void station in the Grejor System. It was there that the loyalists planned their next steps. The Salamanders split into two fleets, one bearing their primarch who lied in stasis, was to go to Terra while the second and much larger fleet would make way to Nocturne. Vulkan's last command before he was interred into a stasis pod was that the Draco Sector had to be fortified and readied for war. The Death Guard survivors would go with Vulkan to Terra, desperate to rendezvous with their gene-father, as well as to cleanse their ranks of Typhon sympathisers. The surviving loyalist World Eaters, having reverted to the old Legion name of War Hounds, would return to Nuceria, revealing their primarch's treachery to his homeworld with the intent to make it a loyalist fortress.

As for the Blood Angels, they made way to the Baal System. Their losses, over forty thousand in a single day, saw the Legion reduced by a third. The IX needed new recruits and supplies to become a serious threat to the traitors. It took months to reach Baal, as warp storms, rebel fleets and treacherous worlds slowed their return home. When the Blood Angels returned home, they spent months rebuilding and reorganising. While the Legion recuperated, Sanguinius despatched squads to combat the traitors. Strikes against promethium refineries, weapon depots, general manufactoria and more occurred in that time it took the Blood Angels to recover somewhat.

Little over a year after Bellanor, the IX was ready to return. And for a year, they did so, striking hard at Fulgrim's flanks. Great successes against the Eight Legions forced traitor redeployments and caution, Sanguinius tactical and strategic genius coming to the forte. Fulgrim knew he could crush Sanguinius in pure numbers but realised that to do so would delay his march to Terra for too long and would cause irreplaceable casualties. With military options too costly, the War Commander turned to the daemonic.

Lorgar Aurelian, recently returned from the successful Shadow Crusade, was chosen by the Phoenician to deal with the troublesome IX. After many days of deliberation and communion with the gods, Lorgar chose the world of Kolasar, on the edge of the Veiled Region in the Segmentum Pacificus as the site of his plan's execution. The Seventeenth Primarch brought several thousand Word Bearers with him. Lorgar laid waste to a dozen heavily populated worlds on the way to Kolasar, collecting millions of slaves from each world while levelling their cities with atomic-tipped warheads. On the surface of each world, a large Octed was scarred onto the surface via sorcery, aetheric fire allowing it to be seen from orbit.

The Angel was made aware of Lorgar's actions by way of Imperial spies. He was surprised that a primarch would go so far from the frontlines, with so few legionnaires, and heading towards a backwater area of space. However, Sanguinius knew that if whatever foul ritual Lorgar was concocting was able to be successfully completed, it would not bode well for the Imperium. Besides, if Sanguinius was able to kill Lorgar, the architect of the Heresy and one of Fulgrim's greatest supporters, it would shake the foundation of the Traitor Legions and be a desperately needed morale boost to the Imperial masses. Gathering most of his Legion, leaving the remainder under the command First Captain Raldoron to continue the fight in the Ultima Segmentum, Sanguinius pursued Lorgar to Kolasar. When the IX arrived, a warp storm covered Kolasar, growing stronger by the hour and soon would spread like a canker amongst the Veiled Region. On the surface, an intricate ritual was in its final stages when the Blood Angels launched their assault. Dropships and drop-pods, carrying tens of thousands of Blood Angels, descended to the sorcery-burned earth of Kolasar.

The Word Bearers numbered only a few thousand, but separating the two Legions were hundreds of thousands of daemonic creatures. The Golden Warrior and his sons fought through the Neverborn, losing many legionnaires but it was all for naught. The loyalists were too late. Lorgar's ritual was completed; the warp storm that would soon be called the Fracture was formed.

Before Sanguinius could confront Lorgar, the Urizen escaped via a warp tear, traveling halfway across the galaxy in the return to Fulgrim's side. Sanguinius, enraged, unleashed his fury on the daemons. Lorgar left behind eight disciples blessed by the Pantheon to act as conduits for the Fracture's corrupted growth, each one leaving the planet with hundreds of Word Bearers each to continue the spread of the warp storm to nearby systems. Sanguinius was forced to hunt them down, lest the Fracture grow to the point that it split the Segmentum in half.

For two years Sanguinius hunted these disciples of Chaos, and with each one killed the storm's growth slowed, until finally in the Heresy's fifth year the eighth and final disciple was killed, and the storm contained. This campaign would forever be known in Blood Angel archives as the Containment. Despite the IX being successful in halting the expansion of the Fracture, near on two hundred star systems had already been assimilated into the warp storm, most of it belonging to the unexplored Veiled Region.

Returning to normal space and rendezvousing with Raldoron, the Blood Angels quickly found themselves embroiled with the majority of the Fifth Legion. For months, both Legions struck at one another. In direct confrontations, the IX emerged victorious more oft than not, but V scored several damaging blows against the Blood Angels using hit-and-run tactics. These engagements were settled when the Blood Angels were able to trap a significant portion of the White Scar fleet and destroy much of it, forcing Jaghatai to retreat rather than risk his Legion's crippling.

Even in defeat, the traitors had scored a victory of sorts. Most of Sanguinius' fleet was in desperate need for resupply and maintenance that only a dockyard could give. The Angel of Blood ordered his fleet to the Venyr System, where to the surprise of all were the Dark Angels, also in the midst of repairing and resupplying their fleet after the brutal five year long Arcurean Crusade. The Angel and the Lion convened in council and both agreed to make way for Terra immediately after repairs concluded, as reports detailed the War Commander's drive into the Imperial heartland.

Before the two fleets could depart Venyr Prime, however, the White Scars returned. Jaghatai Khan had recalled almost the entirety of the V for this lighting strike on the unsuspecting Legions. The White Scars had warped into real-space dangerously close to Venyr Prime, the planet's gravity well distorting warp currents. Neither the First nor Ninth Primarch believed their Chogorian brother would risk his fleet in such a way. Six years ago they would have been right, but the Heresy had propelled the Warhawk into the service of Slaanesh, and with such utter damnation came recklessness and sensory-depravity of unknown scale.

The V arrived and swept through the two Angel fleets, destroying some and crippling far more. Before a proper response could be put into effect, the traitors had left, their damaging work done. Both Loyalist Primarchs still wished to leave for Terra soon, but the realities of a half-crippled fleet stayed their hand, forcing them to remain for nigh on a year to repair their fleets.

As they waited, painstakingly and agonisingly, news and rumours of titanic battles taking place deep within the Segmentum Solar continued to filter through the warp and its many astropathic echoes. Eventually, the two Legions were ready to leave but still faced many months of tumultuous warp travel but finally did arrive to Terra. Unfortunately yet again, Sanguinius had arrived too late: the Heresy was over. Dorn and Fulgrim dead, the Emperor interred on the Golden Throne, and the Sol System razed by the Siege. Nonetheless, Sanguinius worked closely with his remaining brothers to ready the Imperium for its counter-attack.

 **Post-Heresy-**

When the Great Scouring was initiated after the Year of Intermission, the Blood Angels were ever at the forefront. World after world, sector after sector, were liberated and reintegrated back into the Imperium of Man. Seven years passed before the Imperium's borders were restored, and the Scouring ended. Many changes swept the Imperium: the creation of the High Lords, the construction of the Iron Cages, the dissolution of the Imperial Army that saw rise to the Imperial Guard and Imperial Navy, and above all the Codex Astartes.

Penned by Guilliman, who became Lord Warden of the Imperium during the Year of Intermission, the Codex divided the Legions into smaller, more precise, and less dangerous Chapters. Never again would the Imperium face the possibility of a Legion's betrayal. It saddened Sanguinius to divide the close brotherhood that was the Blood Angels but he understood the necessity of the act. As a result, the Ninth Legion dutifully divided itself into ten Chapters.

Sanguinius, his official position within the new Imperium known as the Imperial Prince, acted as a symbolic rallying point for the wounded Imperium. Though the Master of Mankind now resided permanently on the Golden Throne of Terra, His Ninth Son still lived. If Horus was said to have inherited his father's ambition, it was Sanguinius who inherited His nobility.

The eight primarchs that survived the Scouring took on these new offices. Guilliman the Lord Warden, El'Jonson the Lord Protector, Vulkan the Regent of Mars, with the others receiving their own duties and powers associated with their title. Though Sanguinius' Imperial Prince rank was largely seen as ceremonial and propagandist, it did have the unseen side effect of popularising the Imperial Cult, easing its spread across the Imperium.

 _The bells tolled, ringing with such power that if she had stood by them her eardrums would rupture. Her name was Sarisca, and she had been born on Holy Terra forty-six years ago. Having been born in the South Nippon Province, it had taken her many years to accumulate enough coin to travel all the way here, to the gates of the Imperial Palace._

 _Her great-grandmother, Emperor bless her soul, had once showed her picts of the Palace taken during the Great Heresy. It had showed the fortifications, the battlements, the thick bunkers and tall towers. Now looking at it, she could see that those still resided but their stark blandness had been reformed to look more natural to the original Palace. To defend against the hordes of evil, the Stone Praetorian had removed the paintings and statues and the frescoes, replacing them with defensive works. In the aftermath of the Siege, the Iron Praetorian had returned them to their rightful places, honouring his beloved brother Dorn and their holy father. The fortifications remained, having long since been repaired and now more impregnable than ever. Manning them, at least the ones she could see, were Iron Warriors._

 _Sarisca had heard that Perturabo was off-world, but at least a company of his sons remained, acting as the defenders of the Outer Palace. The crowds cheered them but knew not to approach too closely or in a manner that could be deemed hostile. Security was the Space Marines primary concern._

 _The bells' tolling ended. The horns began promptly after, and the thick adamantium gates opened to reveal figures in red and black marching out, ten by ten. Behind them was what she had travelled all this way to see, as had all the others standing around her. The Angel of Blood, Prince of the Imperium, strode outside the Palace walls, followed closely by gold armoured Astartes._

 _The Angel's face was beautiful, his golden hair shining in the sun's light, legendary sword sheathed to the hip. Many fell to their knees, heads bowed in submission. Even those that did not submit themselves so, still bowed their heads for a primarch's aura was too powerful for the mortal mind to gaze at too long. Words of prayers were muttered and shouted. Sung hymns rolled through the crowds._

 _The Angel walked, allowing the citizens of Terra to see the God-Emperor's angelic son, the heir of all that He had once personally held. Sanguinius spread his wings, much the crowd's delight, and rose into the air, flying over the crowd._

 _A single feather, pearl white, fell to the ground. Sarisca grabbed it before another could. Those around her stared jealously at it but none dared move to take it, lest they incur the wrath of the Arbites dotted through the crowd. An Angel's feather! Such a treasure. Sanguinius returned to the ground and the march through the masses continued._

Though each primarch held a position on the High Lords, and all were powerful in their own right, it was Sanguinius, Guilliman and Horus who effectively ruled the Imperium. All three agreed that one of them must always remain on Terra, to act as beacon of hope and stability. Horus' duties as Warmaster typically saw him on campaign across the galaxy; while Guilliman was busy restructuring the Adeptus Terra, specifically the Administratum, to make the Imperial government run more efficiently and effectively as it was in chaos after the death of Malcador.

Out of the triumvirate, Sanguinius spent by far the most time on Terra. But the Golden Warrior was far from idle. During the War of the Beast, it was Sanguinius who led the strike on the Ork Attack Moon, destroying it over Saturn in 544.M32 in the War's early stages. While Horus returned to Terra to direct the war against the resurgent Orks, it was Sanguinius who led many of the offensives. Baal, Kaesar, and dozens of other systems were locations of climatic battles between the Imperium and the Orks. When the war ended in Imperial victory, the Angel travelled the Imperium to build morale and oversee reconstruction. Sanguinius returned to Terra to resume his duties.

On his many years on Terra, Sanguinius oversaw a project to refine the Blood Angel gene-seed in the hope of eliminating the Red Thirst, using the vast resources at his disposable. After many trials and errors in controlled environments, a successful gene-strand was created. It did not remove the Red Thirst all together, but it did cut down the occurrence of the malady by nearly ninety percent. Sanguinius was cautious in his approach so it took decades for the strand to be deployed across his gene-line but eventually all who carried the gene-seed of the Imperial Prince now carried refined and more genetically stable progenoid glands.

As the centuries came and went, the Loyalist Primarchs whittled away, either dying, placed in stasis, or disappearing. By the time of the 35th Millennium only Sanguinius and Horus remained. It was during the Fifth Vengeance Crusade, that the Angel left Terra for the last time. Horus was commanding the defence of the Cadian Iron Cage, when a large Chaos host spewed forth from the Fracture, overrunning the Iron Cage surrounding it, and invading dozens of Imperial star systems. No Adeptus Astartes Chapters were in position to contain the threat and rebellions were spreading rapidly, causing instability across several sectors. The local Guard and Navy forces were swept away with ease.

The Ninth Primarch could not allow this to continue. Marshalling the entirety of the Blood Angels and two other nearby Chapters, the Entombed and the Dark Sons, the Imperial Prince made way to the Fracture. The three Chapters, numbering roughly fifteen thousand Astartes in total, attacked the Chaos forces and with great sacrifice drove them back to the Fracture's original borders. Sanguinius was content to leave the surviving traitors in their own domain, planning to redeploy to other warzones in desperate need of reinforcement. Before the loyalists could redeploy, the leader of the Chaos forces within the storm revealed himself: Nassir Amit, the Flesh Tearer. Thousands of years ago, two centuries after the Heresy, the Flesh Tearers Chapter rebelled against the Imperium, the first Chapter to turn traitor in its entirety. The Angel had pursued the Flesh Tearer, reaping heavy losses on the Traitor Chapter, until the remnants fled into the Eye of Terror, where it was assumed Amit was killed in the Legion Wars raging at the time.

But the Flesh Tearer had reappeared, this time wearing the colours of the Sons of Fulgrim, commanding thousands of traitor Astartes. The Angel could not let the opportunity of killing his most notorious son slip through his fingers. The three Imperial Chapters invaded the Fracture, eliminating warband after warband, hunting the Flesh Tearer down.

 _The daemon world screamed. Sanguinius did not know if it was because of his presence or if it always had done so, but the world bellowed a piercing wail that could best be described as terrified screaming._

 _The Sanguinary Guard and other Blood Angels fought and bled at his side. Elsewhere across the battlefield the Entombed, their charcoal grey and dull white armour a stark contrast to the traitors they fought against. World Eater, White Scar and Son of Fulgrim. Many of the Sons of Fulgrim sported void-black left shoulder pad, showing they were of the Phertalien._

 _The Dark Sons fought against a fresh tide of Neverborn, their quartered dark green and white armour drenched in daemonic ichor. Sanguinius cut through several more Chaos Space Marines, seeing Nassir Amit standing atop a hill of bone, directing the traitors. Sanguinius moved towards him, bodyguards establishing a perimeter. Amit turned to him, raising a chainsword in taunting salute._

 _Behind Amit, a tear opened and three hulking crimson figures emerged, chains wrapped around them, taut wings outstretching, and large melee weapons held tightly. Protruding horns piercing skulls. Sanguinius knew they were greater daemons, Bloodthirsters to be exact. Nonetheless, he had a duty. Raising_ Regis _and clutching_ Telesto _, he charged._

In the Fracture, on a daemon world that screamed torment, Sanguinius fell to the blades of three powerful Bloodthirsters led by An'ggrath the Unbound. Sanguinius defeated the servants of Khorne, banishing them, but died in the process. Before the incensed Blood Angels could retrieve their fallen primarch's body, Amit stole the Spear of Telesto and took blood-soaked feathers as trophies, likely to be gifted to War Commander Sakaeron. Promptly thereafter, the traitors and daemons were forced to retreat and the Angel's body was recovered. Due to the death of Sanguinius, the Blood Angels withdrew from the campaign. As a result of their departure, the Entombed and Dark Sons were forced to do so as well. The Second Containment of the Fracture was a tactical Imperial victory, as all traitor-occupied systems outside the warp storm were retaken but Sanguinius' death caused it to become a strategic loss.

The Angel's death led to mass mourning and grief across the Emperor's Realm. Even the success of defeating the Fifth Vengeance Crusade was seen as hollow solace. The sudden departure of Horus Lupercal to the Eye of Terror a decade later saw the Imperium of Man become primarch-less. No longer would the Emperor's sons guide His empire, or lead His armies. It was a dark time but one Mankind weathered. The Golden Age of the Imperium was over, the Age of Longing began.

The Blood Angels and their Successors, devastated at the loss of the Angel, nevertheless have continued on. Wars were fought, rebellions and uprisings quelled, and many lives lost. The Blood Angels Chapter has sacrificed much in that time, and that suffering continues to the modern era. The War of the False Angel, the Razing of Baal, and other conflicts saw the Blood Angels much reduced in number as the 41st Millennium came to a close, yet despite this they are ready to defend the Imperium from all who aspire to tear it down.

 **Organisation-**

The Ninth Legion's organisation was standard company layout, with companies ranging from a mere hundred to upwards a thousand though that was incredibly rare. When the Codex Astartes was adopted, the Blood Angels split into Chapters, with a majority of their Successors Codex-compliant.

A specialised unit within the Chapter, and found in Blood Angel Successors, is the Death Company. Despite its name, the Death Company typically numbers only a few squads worth, occasionally less; a far cry from the Codex standard. Several Chapters had large Death Companies, notably the Flesh Tearers and the Charnel Guard, both of whom turned traitor.

Apothecaries are known as Sanguinary Priests, the name having changed in the decades after the Heresy. Chaplains are called Wardens, a name that predates the Codex. A tradition within the Sanguinius-descended Chapters is the Sanguinary Guard, a unit that is outside the normal chain of command who protects the Chapter Master at all costs. Most Sanguinary Guard units wear the golden armour that their primarch's protectors wore, but some Chapters' Sanguinary Guard wear different coloured armour, such as the Angels Encarmine who wear alabaster armour.

A unique position within the Chapter is that of the Sanguinor. Formed in the aftermath of the Scouring, the Sanguinor acts as an unbiased adviser to the Chapter Master and as regent for the Baal tri-worlds when the Chapter Master is off on campaign. Another sacred duty of the Sanguinor is to act as the Chapter's Champion and Executioner. Wearing a golden mask molded from Sanguinius' features, few dare risk defying whom they see as the avatar of Sanguinius' spirit and will. None but the Chapter Master and the Exalted Herald of the Sanguinary Guard know the identity of the Sanguinor.

 _Dante watched as Sepharan reached into the chalice, picking one of the two Guards' names from it._

 _Sepharan brought the slip of paper to him, which Dante as Lord Commander it was his honour and burden to bear. "Besarius." The legionnaire in question pulled out his sword and turned to his true brother, Copherus, who knelt without hesitation. Both were of a height and were so similar in attitude and movement as if to be trueborn twins, which they were._

 _Besarius' sword pierced his brother's primary heart. A twist and pull saw Copherus slump forward onto Besarius' shoulder, gore splattering onto the floor. The Sanguinary Guardsman placed the goblet beneath his brother. The chalice filled to the brim with blood. Besarius drank the sanguine fluid in a single gulp, setting it down onto the floor._

 _Dante and Sepharan saluted their fallen brother, observing a moment of silence and reflection. Once it ended, they began. The off-duty robe Besarius wore was discarded, replaced with the golden Artificer Armour of his new office. The helm was withdrawn from the fire, white-hot with heat. It was placed on the Guardsman's head, the flesh being forever sealed to to the metal. To the Space Marine's credit, he didn't even grunt from discomfort._

 _"Besarius is dead," spoke Dante, "Long live the Sanguinor."_

 **Recruitment-**

Since the discovery of Sanguinius, the Legion recruited exclusively from the tri-worlds of Baal. The Chapter followed suit and only recruits from the worlds within the Baal System.

The screening process for Blood Angel Aspirants is notably difficult: survival in the deep rad-wastes with little to no survival gear, facing all manner of predators and hazardous environments. Those that endure the journey find themselves in gladiator arenas where they combat to death against their fellows. After only a mere fifty remain, the survivors are taken to Arx Angelicum, but the trials do not end there.

The one hundred and fifty Aspirants, fifty from each world, then must face a seventy-two hour vigil of contemplation without rest. Not all last, however. Those that fail are taken away, never to be seen again. Those that remain are then cleared to be Neophytes. Once all nineteen Space Marine organs are implanted, they are then placed into blood-filled sarcophagi for their bodies to heal. When those that endure all the changes wrought upon their flesh, they rise from the sarcophagus; the Neophyte sheds the training attire and dons the red and black power armour of a full battle-brother of the Blood Angels Chapter.

 **Homeworld-**

The homeworld of the Blood Angels is the tri-worlds of Baal, with no world in particular being treated above the other. On Baal, the fortress-monastery of Arx Angelicum is located but it and the planet's two moons are treated as training grounds and recruitment centres.

The Baal System has been invaded twice in its history. The first was during the War of the Beast when an Ork Attack Moon broke through the Chapter's local defence fleet and landed Orks onto the tri-worlds. Sanguinius returned to Baal, having recalled his scattered Chapter, and destroyed the invasion's fleet, and proceeded to lead the extermination on the ground.

The second invasion was during the early months of Hive Fleet Leviathan's rampage across the Imperium. The Tyranids tore through the Chapter's fleet, landing spores onto Baal Primus. It took weeks of heavy fighting for the Tyranids to be contained and destroyed, though millions of the moon's civilians and hundreds of Blood Angels perished in the process.

A counter-attack by Lord Commander Dante destroyed the Norn-Queen aboard her capital hiveship, causing psychic interruption and confusion within the Tyranid splinter-fleet, allowing the Blood Angels to exterminate the fleet, saving the tri-worlds.

But there is no time for celebration. The Blood Angels have been reduced to less than two thousand Astartes. Replacing losses has been difficult due to high casualties in the star system, and that the sons of Sanguinius refuse to lower their standards or methods of recruitment. With the vulnerability and relative weakness of the Blood Angels, many worry that the Chapter's home system would be a target for the impending Eleventh Vengeance Crusade.

 **Beliefs-**

The Blood Angels are a noble Chapter, though known for their bloodthirstiness against enemies of Mankind. Beloved by countless trillions, the Blood Angels are paragons of virtue and defenders of the innocent. Statues and frescoes of the Angel are one of the most numerous in the Imperium, showing that though he passed six millennia ago, the Ninth Son is still held in dear memory.

 **Gene-seed-**

The gene-seed of the scions of Sanguinius has remained steadfastly pure for over ten thousand years. Despite this, the Blood Angels and their descendants carry a dark secret: the Red Thirst. The problem continued to become a larger issue over the centuries until Sanguinius developed a more stable strain in M33. Since that time the number of Red Thirst occurrences has fallen drastically, though this has not always been the case. Whether it be gene-seed mutation, or intentional tampering, several Chapters have a large Death Company. Several of those Chapters have had a high percentage of Astartes turning traitor.

A beneficial by product of Sanguinius' genetic line is that more Blood Angels have reached a thousand years old than any other First Founding bloodline.

 **Battlecry-**

The battlecry of the Blood Angels has, and always will be, "By the Blood of Sanguinius!" and "For the Emperor and Sanguinius!"

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I present you the Blood Angels. I hope you enjoy my take on them. I have some chapters I'd like to put out before the Iron Hands Index. One will be TTL's Badab War, then the next will be chapter one of a sub-series called 'The Long War.' Essentially my version of ADB's 'Black Legion' series, but with the post-Heresy Sons of Fulgrim, specifically Sakaeron becoming the official War Commander of Chaos and uniting the Chaos Legions behind him for the Vengeance Crusades. I have great news, as well. Nemris, an excellent artist on DeviantArt who has done amazing pieces for the Roboutian Heresy, has begun work making artwork for this timeline. I'm very excited for this and if you haven't seen his previous work, I heavily recommend it.


	27. The Badab War

**The Badab War**

 **903-915**

Ever since the early centuries of the Imperium's recovery after the Fulgrimian Heresy, the Maelstrom has been deemed a significant threat to Imperial security. Located in the galactic western half of the Ultima Segmentum, and worrisomely near the Segmentum Solar, many deemed it a strategic threat to the Imperium's heartland. Though not nearly the size of or as intense as the Eye of Terror, but far larger than the Fracture in Segmentum Pacificus, the Maelstrom has kept many a High Lord awake at night, sweat-damped blankets thrown off in worry. The warp storm was made of hundreds of star systems, if not more, and was surrounded by several sectors of Imperial space. Thankfully, most of the Maelstrom's outer edges are impassable due to the strong volatile warp currents present there. Not even Chaos forces dare navigate through the stormwall as it would be paramount to suicide. There are several locales where entry to and exit from the Maelstrom are stable enough for ships to travel through, with the Badab Gate located within the same named sector being by far the largest and most stable gateway between the Materium and the Immaterium.

The Maelstrom was one of the first security risks to be enclosed with an Iron Cage. Dozens of worlds surrounding the storm were turned into Fortress Worlds with permanent garrisons numbering in the millions of Guardsmen. Scores more became fortified to various degrees and acted as relay stations, supply and repair centres, and communication hubs. An extensive forewarning system was put into place, with astropathic choirs ready to send messages and warnings across Imperial space. Due to a lack of available Space Marines in the aftermath of the Heresy and Scouring, only two Adeptus Astartes Chapters were placed within range of the Maelstrom: the Genesis Chapter and the Blood Drinkers Chapter. Both Chapters, operating from their respective homeworlds, intermittently patrolled the storm's edge. The ten thousand Astartes were deemed more than enough to supplement the hundreds of millions manning the Maelstrom Iron Cage. And for a time, it was.

For millennia, the worst that the Maelstrom spat out were disorganised Chaos hosts, led only by a handful of traitor Space Marines whose raids quickly fell apart, either devolving to infighting or destroyed by superior Imperial forces. Typically the Guard and Navy were more than enough to handle any threat that emerged. Only on occasion were the Genesis and Blood Drinkers called upon, and rarely more than a cohort/platoon was needed.

This process continued for thousands of years but over time the two Chapters were deemed insufficient due to the distance of their domains from the warp storm's borders and their services more needed elsewhere. In mid-M36, by order of the High Lords of the Imperial Senate the two Chapters were detached from its nominal defence. To replace them were four Chapters. Two were newly founded, the Angels of Penance and Lamenters. The other two were fleet-based Chapters who were relocated, gifted homeworlds close to the Maelstrom. These were the Charnel Guard and the Astral Claws. The four Chapters were formalised into a permanent defensive force called the Maelstrom Warders. Their standing overarching mission was to protect Imperial space around the warp storm, this territory called the Maelstrom Zone. Centuries later, another Chapter named the Accipiters was added to the Warders. All five Chapters were stationed within the Badab Sector. The Badab Sector was the richest and most populous of the sectors surrounding the Maelstrom, and the relative ease with which large fleets could travel to and fro the Maelstrom via the Badab Gate highlighted the necessity of a heavy Astartes presence. Though the defence of the Badab Sector would be the primary mission of the Warders, they were also responsible for the safety and security of the rest of the Maelstrom Zone which has led to companies from all five Chapters patrolling the Zone's other, less important sectors.

 _The XX legionnaire died beneath Captain Tolgrad's power hammer. The traitor hideout on Jiscard had been well hidden, but not well enough. Tolgrad and his Fourth Company of the Accipters moved swiftly, securing corridor after corridor with ruthless coordination and execution, a matter of course for the First Warmaster's bloodline. Every traitor found was killed, even the mortal serfs and agents. All those that held allegiance to the Alpha Legion were to be killed on sight. No prisoners were needed for interrogation. It would be deceptive lies anyway._

 _Tolgrad grinned as he fought. At last, he was fighting other Astartes. After more than three decades since the Chapter's Founding and subsequent deployment to the Maelstrom, no traitor Space Marines had spewed forth from the warp storm. The most challenging he had combated against had been Dark Eldar pirates and an Ork-controlled Space Hulk. Now, he fought with righteous purpose, doing what he was made to do._

 _It had taken months to hunt down this Alpha Legion warband to their hideout. Their cankerous presence had been felt in the Zone since their arrival five years ago from afar. A dozen worlds had rebelled, three Planetary Governors assassinated, and eleven worlds torn by civil war had been their success before the Accipiters had tracked them down to here. In orbit the Sixth and Ninth Companies were mopping up the remnants of the traitors' fleet and boarding the small void station that hovered there._

 _From orbit, two entrances to the underground base had been detected. Fourth Company took one while First Company took the other. Four companies of his Chapter, numbering two thousand battle-brothers, faced off against a hundred or so sons of Alpharius. Overkill it might seem, but such force was necessary to ensure the sly serpents were exterminated root and stem._

 _As they reached the lower levels of the base, he could hear the First Captain taunting the warband leader. With victory in sight, Tolgrad sped onwards, his brothers following._

" _By our Fury!" he yelled, the others taking up the call as they delved ever deeper into the serpents' lair._

The Warders worked well together in patrolling and policing the Zone until mid-M41 during what would be called the Eada Incident. Eada was a major Imperial Industrial World in the Badab Sector, close to the Maelstrom. It was also the primary recruiting world for the fleet-based Lamenters. In 545.M41 a large Chaos host led by a Word Bearer warlord known only as the Sacrosanct Flayer invaded Imperial space in a Black Crusade, overrunning the Fortress World of Ibania within days. With a crack chipped into the Iron Cage, Chaos forces swept into the sector. World after world were conquered by traitor Astartes and their human slave-armies. The Flayer's foul charisma swayed dozens of regiments of the Guard and entire squadrons of the Navy to betray the God-Emperor, bolstering his own forces.

 _Lord General Jun LaQoye leaned over the strategy table, his scowl having not left his face since enemy ships emerged from the Mandeville points originating from the Maelstrom hours ago. The first few squadrons he had felt confident about delaying long enough for Space Marine reinforcement to arrive. But the enemy kept coming, warship after warship and transport after transport. Traitor Space Marines supplanted by millions of fanatic soldiers. This was without a doubt a Black Crusade. Though not nearly as devastating or threatening as Sakaeron's Vengeance Crusades, Black Crusades were nonetheless a serious threat. And the one approaching Ibania now was the strongest to ever have emerged from the Maelstrom._

 _Ibania was a Fortress World, a linchpin of the Badab Gate and part of the Maelstrom Iron Cage. Its garrison of twelve million Guardsmen were well-trained and had fought against other Chaos excursions before. The Navy fielded a powerful taskforce that included three fleet carriers and two battleships. Ibania's citizenry had grown up knowing their world was the wall that separated innocents from the madness of the storm, and they were ready to lay down their lives to stop any invaders from breaking past the Gate._

 _But looking at the imposing fleet moving towards his world at three-quarters speed, LaQoye knew that Ibania would fall. Those Astartes warships spearheading the traitor armada likely carried hundreds, if not thousands, of Chaos Space Marines. Gritting his teeth, he began to deliver orders, curt and no-nonsense. If he was to die, better it be surrounded by corpses of the enemy. Ibania would fall but it would bleed the traitors first._

The Warders were caught off guard. The Accipiters were several sectors away, exterminating a recently discovered xenos empire, leaving only a token force to protect their homeworld Bandar. Seven companies of the Angels of Penance had been deployed to assist in the destruction of the Dessian Union. Only the Charnel Guard, Lamenters and Astral Claws defended the Zone in full strength, and they were scattered across the Zone's several sectors, dealing with piracy and minor rebellions. Out of the three, only the Lamenters were concentrated in the Badab Sector at the time of the Black Crusade.

The Sacrosanct Flayer's host numbered nearly six thousand Space Marines of various Legion and Chapter origin, but it was his mortal forces that were daunting. Estimated to be nearly eighty million ground troopers, with a fleet to support and transport it, the Flayer's military might was the greatest threat ever to assail the Maelstrom Zone.

The Word Bearer commander slaughtered his way to Eada, conquering a dozen worlds along the way. In a move that was deemed surprisingly insightful for a Chaos warlord, the Flayer avoided the nearby Badab System, home of the Astral Claws. Reasons range from the heavy defences located there to the permanent garrison company who would have taken weeks to defeat for little gain. The relative vulnerability of Eada, not to mention is industrial riches, was too tempting to pass up. The Flayer wished to capture the extensive Adeptus Astartes supplies stored there. Traitor ships emerged from the Immaterium, destroying what few Lamenter warships defended it, and landed their vast forces on the surface. The Battle of Eada had begun.

Most of the Lamenters were elsewhere in the sector but quickly rerouted to Eada, converging almost their entire strength to relieve their recruiting world and destroy the Flayer's host. What ensued was nearly a month of street-by-street attrition-based urban warfare, destroying most of Eada's primary manufacturing capability. Entire warehouses of newly assembled Mk. VIII Aquila and Mk. IX Errant-pattern armour were stolen by the Flayer's lackeys. Later, these captured armoured suits would be seen worn by traitor Astartes, bolstering their already deadly catalogue of weapons and equipment. The Lamenter Chapter Master died defending a vital bridge in the centre of Eada's primary hive city. Officer after officer of the Loyalist Chapter was killed until only the Captain of the Sixth Company still breathed. This captain, whose name would eventually go down in history as one of the most well-known traitors in recent Imperial history, was Malakim Phoros.

 _The traitor screamed in joy as Phoros impaled him with his power spear. Underneath the warband's colour scheme and marks, the Lamenter could see that the winged lightning bolt sigil of the Fifth Legion resided on the chestplate, a mockery of their former allegiance. The Chogorian Astartes spoke a few last words in his native tongue before dying, his features portraying bliss. Spitting in disgust, the Lamenter captain turned back to his depleted command squad, now only three Astartes, not including himself._

 _Eada's capital hive city burned as traitors moved through it, both Space Marine and mortal, combing the areas, looking for loyalists to kill and loot. Phoros picked up his bolt pistol, reloading it with his last magazine, before setting off down the street to link up with another squad. The four-way intersection featured three destroyed Land Raiders, one still afire, and dozens of ground cars and a clipped air car, its engine shot through with bolt shells. The Eadan dead littered the ground. He failed them. They all had. Their deaths weighed heavy on his shoulders. Sixteen Lamenters, their black coloured trim detailing them as the Chapter's Death Company lie amidst the wreckage, empty bolt shells and pools of blood everywhere. The afflicted Marines had taken many of the traitors with them, their curse gifting them strength in their final moments. Muttering a prayer for Sanguinius to receive them, he moved through the wreckage of limbs and metal._

" _Sir," spoke Veteran Sergeant Imano over the vox._

" _What?" he asked, voice clipped._

" _Chapter Master Oros is dead." The sergeant was quiet for a moment. "What are your orders, Chapter Master?"_

 _Oros had been Chapter Master for less than three days, his predecessor a mere seven hours. One by one, the ranking captains became Chapter Master; ensuring command never broke down into anarchy and confliction of orders. Now he, sixth in the succession, was now the bearer of that burden._

 _He took a moment to process the information, before tapping into the Chapter-command link, and began to demand status reports, casualties, ammunition reserves and more. He would do his duty; he would hold Eada until reinforcements arrived._

 _But where were they? Where the hell were they?_

Phoros took command of a desperate situation. His Chapter had been halved, the traitors were gaining ground, and ammunition was becoming a problem. Thankfully, days after assuming command, astropathic messages from the Astral Claws and Charnel Guard reached him detailing that both Chapters were en route and would strike at the Flayer's warfleet hovering over Eada. Their companies would descend to Eada, bolstering loyalist forces.

What followed next is debated amongst the Imperium. The Charnel Guard emerged from the warp as promised and engaged the traitors when they reached torpedo range. Fighting was intense, costing the Charnel Guard four hundred battle-brothers in a single day. Despite their previous assurance, the Astral Claws were nowhere to be seen.

Battle continued for another two weeks, both loyal Chapters losing hundreds more, before the Flayer ordered a withdrawal, his objectives completed with his ships' holds full of weapons, armour, and slaves. As the traitor fleet neared the Mandeville point, scores of warships emerged: the Astral Claws. The freshly arrived fleet tore into the wounded traitor fleet, destroying and crippling over three-quarters of it. Chapter Master Anton Kuscer killed the Flayer in single combat after teleporting aboard the warlord's flagship. Those that broke through the Astral Claw battle-lines managed to flee into the warp, heading towards Ibania only to find it retaken by the Imperium. The traitors quickly found themselves destroyed by Kuscer's Space Marines who had laid in wait for days. Out of the Sacrosanct Flayer's entire Black Crusade, less than three percent of his forces returned to the Maelstrom where they quickly lost unity and infighting dominated for many years, preventing any notable excursion from the Maelstrom for over a century.

Phoros, now Chapter Master of barely a thousand Astartes, confronted the Astral Claws commander, demanding to know where he was, since his tardiness from the Battle of Eada cost both his Chapter and the Charnel Guard heavy losses. Kuscer calmly replied that he had sent a message that he would first sever the traitors' route back to the Maelstrom and would liberate the star systems leading to Eada, depriving the Flayer of possible reinforcement and supplies. It was sound strategy, but the lack of communication was damning. Phoros declared no such message had reached him nor the Charnel Guard commander, but Kuscer stated it was due to possible warp interference and left it at that. In his anger, Phoros nearly attacked his Astral Claw counterpart, but was stopped by his own bodyguard. The blow was not delivered, but the insult had been. Kuscer departed from the Eada System within hours, relations with the other two Chapters greatly strained. The Charnel Guard pledged eternal friendship and brotherhood to the Lamenters as they departed, those weeks of bloody warfare having bonded them to unprecedented levels. The Lamenters, for their part, were left to rebuild a world broken by war. It would take decades before the planet approached its pre-invasion levels of production. The heavy civilian losses also contributed to the slow rebuilding of the Lamenters, preventing them from reaching the Codex-dictated of five thousand for almost two centuries.

For the Astral Claws part, they were praised as heroes of the Black Crusade. The High Lords of Terra, looking at the Chapter's recent victories, elevated the Astral Claws as the senior member of the Zone's Warders, unbalancing the stability of power and authority.

 _Malakim Phoros, Master of the Lamenters, Lord of Ruin and Watcher of the Deeps sat on the bridge's command throne of the Chapter's flagship_ Mater Lachrymarum. _His hands gripped around the shaft of his power axe, itching to activate it and commence slaughter. On the vid-screen before him were the lists of casualties suffered on Eada, the battle months old but its inflicted wounds still very fresh. Four thousand one hundred and eighty-seven Lamenters died; thankfully most of their gene-seed had been harvested. Some had been stolen by the fleeing traitors, and more had been destroyed in battle._

 _Phoros tore his eyes off the scrolling names, anger building and only kept under control with the strongest of wills. He had sent word of what had transpired to Lord Commander Dante, but the Blood Angel Chapter Master dismissed the reports, having already received the High Lords' missive. Dante had even warned Phoros to not take revenge or declare a blood-duel against Kuscer, citing that to do so would threaten regional stability. Swallowing the bile that threatened to form, he relaxed his grip on the power axe. At least his had his gene-brothers in the Charnel Guard to depend on, those fellow true scions of Sanguinius. They at least understood what brotherhood and loyalty meant, unlike Dante._

 _He would not let the hatred of the Astral Claws fade. However long it took, he would have revenge. His thoughts were interrupted by Veteran Sergeant Imano, who stood beside him._

" _My lord," called his chief bodyguard. "The Angel of Penance representatives are here. They have brought a guest, a mortal." Imano sounded surprised at that._

" _Let them in," he said. A mortal? How odd._

 _The bridge doors opened, revealing three Angels and a small statured mortal, attire appearing to be modified Ecclesiarchy robes. The mortal had a pinched face and walked smoothly over the floor. The Angels knelt in respect and the mortal did as well after a slight delay. Instead of being enraged by that supposed superiority, it instead interested him. Few mortals could act so collected before a Space Marine, let alone a Chapter Master._

 _Phoros leaned forward. "And who are you?"_

 _The man smiled, yellow-stained teeth a stark contrast to his black and orange robes. "I am Cardinal Pael Thester."_

Due to the Lamenters receiving so little praise and commendation from the citizens of the Zone and the wider Imperium, the Lamenters became reclusive, isolated, and bitter. It is contemplated that if nothing else had happened then Phoros would have carried a grudge but would have done little about it, the rebellion he would later orchestrate having never taken place. But it was not to be. The Angels of Penance recently returned from crushing the Dessian Union and carried with them a dark secret: Pael Thester.

Cardinal Pael Thester, formerly of the Adeptus Ministorum, was the originator, founder, and unforgiving brutal dictator of the Dessian Union, a conglomeration of nearly three hundred worlds that seceded from the Imperium in 529.M41. Thester had begun his rise to power in the Dessian Nebula as a fervent priest of the Imperial Creed. How and when his fall to Chaos occurred is unknown, though many suspect Alpha Legion or Oprechnyna influence. Nonetheless, in mere decades he had gone from a travelling priest to Cardinal of Dessia, capital of the sector and Nebula star group. Within years of that, not only did he form the Dessian Union but also corrupted the local Space Marine Chapter in its entirety. The White Stalwarts were renamed the Apostles of Dessia and acted as his transhuman enforcers. The Imperium's response was one of mass retaliation. Three full Chapters, and elements from four others, including the Angels of Penance, assaulted the Union and tore it down over a period of nearly seventeen years. After the war, the Dessian Nebula was rebuilt and reintegrated into the Imperium over a period of several decades; the corruption that had run amok for years was burned out root and stem by an unrelenting Inquisition.

The Angels of Penance, descended from Lion El'Jonson, fought bravely and attained many honours in that campaign but who had converted to Chaos in secret for reasons unknown, though it was clear Thester had much to do with it. Though his Chaos empire fell in early 546.M41, Thester faked his death using a clone, allowing him and the hundred or so Apostles that remained to store aboard the Angels of Penance warships on their return voyage to the Maelstrom Zone.

When the Angels of Penance arrived to their homeworld, they quietly and slowly purged the loyalist companies that had remained behind. As this took place, Thester received whispers from the Ruinous Powers, or at the very least daemons of great power that served them, telling the Damned Cardinal that the Lamenters and Charnel Guard were vulnerable to corruption.

It took many years of the Angels subtly promoting hostility amongst the Warders, orchestrating events that established two distinct factions within the Warders. One faction was made up of the Astral Claws and the Accipiters, while the other was formed of the Lamenters, Charnel Guard and Angels of Penance. Many assumed it was mere politics and that the two sides would mend ways and focus on their duty, but it would not be so. The corruption was done slowly to avoid Imperial detection, and by the late 800s of M41 the three Chapters had fallen to Chaos in their entirety and were planning to secede from the Imperium.

* * *

 **The Opening Stages: 903-907**

Their opportunity came in 903.M41. Two Chaos warbands within the Maelstrom had agreed to form an alliance. One was an Iron Hand warband called Ghelok'shoankar (roughly translated from Medusan to Low Gothic as 'Purity of Forged Metal') and the second was a White Scar warband called the Marauders. Elsewhere through the Zone outside of the Badab Sector, the Lamenters used their fleet-based organisation to spread scores of cults in the Zone's other sectors to ensure regional instability and chaos reigned supreme. With their military strength deemed more than sufficient, the traitors began to initiate their uprising. While there would be fighting across the Zone, it was the Badab Sector that would be the primary battleground.

The Lord of Ruin orchestrated the invasion of Badab Primaris in 903.M41. In overwhelming force, the Lamenters surprised attacked the Astral Claws homeworld, while simultaneously the Charnel Guard and Angels of Penance struck at several worlds throughout the Badab Sector. Thus, began the Badab War. On the Astral Claw homeworld, Phoros confronted Rovik Blake, Kuscer's successor, and killed him in single combat. Hundreds of millions died during the invasion, earning Phoros his most infamous title: Skyburner. The takeover of the planet was finished within days. The rest of the Zone would see a rapid rise of uprisings, with many defeated in their infancy but several would succeed and see cultists controlling dozens of Imperial worlds, forcing the local Guard regiments to spend the entire war dislodging the cultists from their positions

The surprise attack on Badab Primaris and its garrison saw over three thousand Astral Claws killed. The Charnel Guard and Angels of Penance captured the principal worlds of Cygnax and Sagan, respectively, cutting off major trade routes leading from the sector to the rest of the Imperium. With three of its most crucial worlds in traitor hands, most of the Badab Sector fell soon after. The Endymion and Magog Clusters, the Khymaran Drift, the Pale Stars and the rest all fell to the rebels within months. The only two areas of the sector that remained firmly in loyalist hands were the Angstrom and Bandar Systems.

Bandar, as befitting its status as homeworld of the Accipters, was heavily fortified and far from the rebel heartlands, sparring it from the opening offensives that swept through the sector. Several companies of the Chapter fought against the traitors in other star systems but were forced to withdraw back to Bandar due to overwhelming numbers.

Angstrom was the largest Forge World within the Badab Sector and was vital for the Zone's overall defence and industrial output. A taskforce of the Angels of Penance invaded when the Badab War began, but were unable to break through the Mechanicus defence fleet. Not long after the Battle of Angstrom, the surviving Astral Claws arrived. There were less than two thousand who were able to flee from Badab Primaris, their officer corps either killed or captured. The highest ranking officer left was Third Captain Lufgt Huron. Huron was not on his homeworld when the war began; rather he was on Terra appealing to the High Lords for greater reinforcement of the Maelstrom Zone as Chaotic activity had been escalating in recent years before the war.

 _Lufgt Huron, newly elevated to Chapter Master of the Astral Claws, stood in the Great Chamber of the Senatorum Imperialis, awaiting the decision of the High Lords, who retired from the chamber for privacy. Sitting in the stands of the Chamber were the lesser Lords and Ladies, as well as scribes, attendants, nobles of varying rank and more. Located at the east end of the Chamber stood a statue of the Seventh Primarch, while the statue of the Iron King stood at the west end; it was said that though they no longer were among the living, their spirits resided in the marble, making sure that the Imperial Senate was just and humble. Even in death, the first two Praetorians watched over their father's empire. The current Praetorian was Demius Serratos, Commander of the Death Strike, and he stood near the High Table, where the fifteen High Lords would take their seats when they returned from their debate._

 _Huron appeared on the outside to wait patiently, though internally he was driven to act, to seek revenge on the rebels who had killed the Rovik Blake and thousands of his brothers. News of the conflict being dubbed the Badab War had reached Terra yesterday, while Huron had been appealing to the Senate of the need to reinforce the Maelstrom Zone. The news had shocked all, none had any inkling three Chapters who had appeared steadfastly loyal for thousands of years would spit on their oaths to the Emperor so suddenly. It was unknown if the rebellion was Chaos-influenced as of yet, but it would be clear as soon as he returned to the Badab Sector with Inquisitorial agents in tow to analyse and observe. Likely they wouldn't be needed. If they were like other Chaos corrupted Chapters, there would be clear signs when met in battle, whether it be mutation or sigils of the Ruinous Powers._

 _In the heat of the moment, fury flowing through his veins, Huron had demanded something from the High Lords. They had been shocked as no one had ever demanded it. Petitioned for it, yes; chosen for it, many times; but demanded, never. Such was the daring of his demand that they had retired for twenty-four hours to discuss the matter. As the large chronos on the wall ticked to noon, bells rung, a chorus sung, and a band expertly played their instruments._

 _The first to emerge from the private chamber was the Chancellor of the Imperial Council. Though not a High Lord, the Chancellor of the Imperial Council was nonetheless a powerful and prestigious position. He would be the officiator of the Senate, the one who called for votes and oversaw the smooth running of day-to-day activities. The actual High Lords followed soon after. When they sat, the music and singing ceased, and the bells last vibrations were felt and then promptly dissipated._

 _The Chancellor, whose seat was apart from and higher than the High Lords cleared his throat, the sound echoing through the coliseum-like Chamber. "My honoured lords and ladies, may I have your attention."_

 _The Chamber, which had already been quieting down, went completely still. This would be marked down as a day of great importance and impact for years to come. Huron, to his surprise, felt a tinge of… nervousness? Apprehension? He was not sure, it was a foreign feeling._

" _Has the High Lords and Ladies of this Imperial Senate come to a decision regarding the matter brought before this council yesterday."_

 _High Lord Erich ven Stolker, Lord Commander Militant of the Imperial Guard, rose and nodded. "We have, Your Excellency."_

" _And?" asked the Chancellor._

" _This high and prestigious council has decided to grant Chapter Master Huron's… request. His flawless command of Imperial forces during the Scourge of Wasting in 892.M41 proves his ability to lead on a large-scale and his loyalty to the Golden Throne is without question." Ven Stolker turned to look at Huron. "Chapter Master Lufgt Huron, you are hereby granted the temporary title of Warmaster until the Badab War is concluded in victory for the Imperium of Man. Do you accept this prestigious rank and the duties and responsibilities associated with it?"_

" _I do, my High Lord."_

Huron became elevated to the rank of Warmaster to prosecute the war against the rebels. Huron knew that the rebels held an advantage in numbers and position, with only two star systems of importance still held in loyalist hands. To rectify this and to buy time for a large multi-Chapter armada to be assembled, Warmaster Huron ordered an estimated thirty million Imperial Guardsman from the Segmentum Solar Reserve to relieve pressure on Bandar and Angstrom, as well as significant Navy support. Their objectives were to liberate several dozen minor star systems on the sector's outer edge to gain territory to launch more daring strikes from in the future, as well as to discourage the rebel Space Marines from attacking the Zone's other sectors. As the brave men and women of the Guard and Navy deployed for this mammoth task, the call for Astartes Chapters was sent out.

Many answered the call, sending what they could, and within a year it was truly an impressive force. The Executioners, Carcharodon Astra, Espandors and Black Wardens deployed their entire Chapters, while the Fire Hawks despatched seven companies, the Star Phantoms five companies, the Salamanders two companies and the Ultramarines three cohorts (one hundred Astartes-sized formation led by a centurion, called a platoon in several other Chapters). Others, such as the Scythes of the Emperor, the Void Spectres and the Luna Wolves were months away from joining, either due to campaign commitments or distance. Nonetheless, they had sworn they would join loyalist forces when they arrived.

This incredible assembly deployed to the Badab Sector. Huron was to bring the bulk of the Imperial forces to the Angstrom System and from there begin the crusade of liberation. The Espandors, bolstered with an extra ten million Guardsmen, and a sizable Navy taskforce would reinforce Bandar and from there proceed to capture nearby systems to prevent rebel raids on the Accipiters homeworld. The Carcharodons, Huron knowing their ferocity and desire to be in battle, were despatched to the Golgathan Wastes where they could strike deep into rebel territory with relative ease. Why the Raven Guard-descended Chapter was sent so far from the soon-to-be primary warzones of the Badab War was known only to Huron and his advisory council, but many whispered it was because of the Carcharodons disregard for another's authority and for the unacceptably high civilian casualties they would have undoubtedly caused during the liberations of the heavily populated worlds near Angstrom and Bandar. Being sent to the Wastes would force the vicious and bloodthirsty Chapter to focus on almost exclusively military targets, such as the Charnel Guard homeworld of Falgur XII whose entire population was deemed tainted and therefore subject to extermination. Several million Guardsmen were also deployed throughout the rest of the Zone to assist local Guard and PDF in putting down the numerous uprisings and to retake worlds lost to cultist movements. It would take years, but the threat was contained, allowing the Space Marines to be concentrated in the Badab Sector alongside the lion's share of the Guard and Navy.

Many predicted that the war would end within two years, but could not be more wrong. The first signs something was amiss was when all astropathic communications with Bandar was cut off shortly after the arrival of the Imperial reinforcements. A scouting squadron was sent to Bandar, only to find the world covered in atomic radiation, with only a few ten million surviving out a population that once numbered over a billion. In orbit, most of the Accipters Chapter fleet was destroyed, their broken wrecks falling to their irradiated homeworld. The Guard and Navy contingent had been wiped out in their entirety. Who caused this was quickly concluded to be the Espandors, who for reasons unknown had turned traitor, embracing Chaos and casting down their allegiance to the Emperor.

 _Marceo Yucanda, Lord Director of the Espandors, watched with satisfaction as the loyalist fleets burned in the void, millions killed within hours. Already Bandar was being made subject to atomic warheads, striking major cities. Yucanda did not have time for a proper death-kill to be delivered to the planet nor did the Chapter have Exterminatus-class munitions on board any of their ships. He sneered at the thought._

 _For decades, his Chapter had been ordered to and fro across the Imperium, fighting pointless battles in forgotten wars. After centuries of doing so, Yucanda had led his depleted Chapter to their homeworld of Gibrael for the first time in years, only to find it overrun with Tyranids. A splinter-fleet of Hive Fleet Mortador had reached it a year ago in 861.M41. Only the skeleton garrison of the fortress-monastery had prevented the total destruction of Gibrael to the vile xenos. With bolter and chainsword, Yucanda had cleansed his homeworld but in the process had exterminated all life on it as a necessity. In the ashes of his people, a revelation came to him._

 _He had spent his entire life fighting for the Imperium, defending it and expanding its borders, but the Imperium never protected his people when they needed it most. The calls for help had been lost in Terra's bureaucracy and none had deemed it necessary to check on the planet whose astropathic choir had gone silent for months. The Espandors lost their homeworld because they were an unknown Chapter, deemed young and of less import than others. If it had been the homeworld of a more well-known and prestigious Chapter, than perhaps Gibrael might have been saved. But the Imperium cared little for the Espandors, and even less for their home. Yucanda swore on that day, he would rebuild his Chapter and seek revenge when the time was right. Hearing of Phoros' rebellion made certain in Yucanda's mind that now was the time to seek revenge on the negligent Imperium that so much had been sacrificed for._

 _Turning to the shipmaster, he ordered for the fleet to make its way to Badab Primaris where the Skyburner had made his headquarters. There, the entire Chapter would pledge its allegiance, and through blood and fire would revel in their infamy._

With the Accipiters all but wiped out to a meagre two hundred and eighty-seven Space Marines, they were retired from the conflict. The Accipiters would spend the rest of the war protecting their planet and the nearby trade routes from piracy. It would take many decades, even with gene-seed deposits from the Repository on Mars, for the Chapter to rebuild itself up to the point of active campaigning duties.

Furthermore, the Marauders warband of White Scar legionnaires and the Iron Hand warband Ghelok'shoankar, had left the Maelstrom to bolster the rebels' flanks. The Iron Hands would fight alongside half the Charnel Guard in preventing the Carcharodons from breaking through traitor lines, as well as preventing them from departing to re-join the main Imperial offensive. The White Scars acted as skirmishers, targeting defenceless worlds and isolated regiments.

Huron adapted, sending the Black Wardens and Salamanders to Bandar to reinforce and protect it until the star system was deemed safe from the war. Only minor skirmishes were fought between the two sides as the year 904.M41 ended and 905.M41 began. The Warmaster knew that if he did not secure victories soon, morale amongst Imperial forces would plummet and the Imperial Senate's support of his position could quickly disappear if that were to happen. If a command change were to occur, it would mean delaying operations for months, further solidifying the traitors' hold on the Badab Sector.

Gathering the Chapters that remained in Angstrom, Huron launched several diversionary attacks against several rebel-held worlds, using the Fire Hawks and the Star Phantoms. Six worlds were liberated, while attacks on two more were repulsed by the local garrisons, but these were inconsequential to what followed next. The understrength Astral Claws, the Executioners and the three hundred Ultramarines assaulted the Industrial World of Pireaus V, deep behind enemy lines. Defended by a company of Lamenters and two companies of the Angels of Penance, the Battle of Pireaus V would last months and see to the deaths of almost two hundred million mortals and thousands of Astartes. The loyalists far outnumbered the traitors in terms of Space Marines, but the rebels had far more mortal soldiers on the planet (simply dubbed the Militia) since Huron was forced to deploy most of his Guard reserves across the Zone and to replace those lost at Bandar. Not only that but the year of occupation by the rebels saw the planet become nearly akin to a Fortress World.

 _High Executioner Arkash Hakkon cut through the platoon of Militia troopers, advancing towards the industrial districts of the capital city. Hundreds of his brothers advanced alongside him, tearing through the rebel army. Here and there were tanks, heavy stubber and heavy bolter positions, lascannons and artillery batteries, but they all fell to the advancing Astartes in silver armour with yellow shoulder inset. Casualties mounted, but compared to the tens of thousands of Militia rebels killed, it was of little note._

 _Several kilometres to the north advanced Warmaster Huron, his Land Raider Crusader leading the blitzkrieg that broke through many layers of fortified bunkers, trenches and murder-holes erected by the Angels of Penance. Hakkon's faith in Huron had been tenuous at first. For a captain, no matter how skilled or promising, to not only become Chapter Master but Warmaster within successive days of one another was unprecedented. It was unheard of, and many of the Chapters who answered the call protested, albeit silently. But the High Lords' will would not bend on the matter. At the time, Hakkon had thought them foolish, the early battles of the war having further made Huron's position fragile and showcasing his youth in such a command role. But this assault deep behind enemy lines, an effective all or nothing was bold. If it failed, a majority of the sector would remain in traitor hands for years, decades even, before an appropriately sized Imperial force could resume the war. But if it succeeded, it would greatly weaken the traitors, robbing them of a major Industrial World and one of their major centres of Militia recruitment, not to mention destroying three companies of rebel Astartes._

 _Exiting a now ruined warehouse, the Executioners arrived to a wide plaza covered in rubble that acted as ad hoc cover. Instead of Militia, the area was defended by Lamenters. Clearing his chainaxe with a single rev, he charged the traitorous bastards, yelling, "For the Emperor!"_

Phoros, seeing the dagger poised over his heart that was the Battle of Pireaus V, ordered the redeployment of millions of Militia soldiery and fleet elements, as well as four companies of the Lamenters, with another from the Charnel Guard. The Lord of Ruin also ordered increased attack probes and skirmishes to tie down the Salamanders and Black Wardens, preventing them from reinforcing Huron.

The twenty-five hundred Space Marines and their mortal support arrived to the Pireaus System and surged through the Imperial blockade to land forces in a massive encirclement of the loyal forces besieging the planet's capital. Huron had to make a choice: retreat and lose any momentum gained; or remain and await reinforcements. Huron went with the latter, and for weeks the Imperials besieged and were besieged, casualties rapidly mounting and ammunition stores running low. The situation appeared dire for the Imperium.

 _Phoros killed as he moved towards the new Astral Claw Chapter Master, who somehow convinced the High Lords to name him Warmaster. Another of that glory-seeking Chapter fell to his power axe as he waded across the battlefield._

" _Huron!" he bellowed. Phoros killed another Astral Claw, following through by wounding another loyalist. Veteran Sergeant Imano finished the loyal Astartes off with a chainglaive to the chest._

 _The Warmaster turned to him, gesturing for his bodyguard to stand back. "Skyburner," he responded simply, readying into a defensive stance._

" _You and your damn brotherhood will die here today, Huron!"_

" _We shall see."_

 _The Lord of Ruin rushed Huron, power axe raised. Power weapons met in a spark of fusion fields. Phoros was an excellent close combat fighter, and quickly he discovered he was better than Huron in offensive moves, but his loyalist counterpart was quite skilled in the defensive. Blows were exchanged but were more cosmetic and light wounds than anything else._

 _Phoros was unsure of exactly how long they had fought, but the planet's twin suns had begun to set and both Chapter Masters had lost their helms in their duel. Around them fought their brothers. Vehicles exploded, battle-brothers died, and the fate of the Badab Sector hung in the balance._

 _After exchanging another set of landed hits, the two Space Marine commanders stepped back from one another to gauge their enemy again. It was at this time, Imano ran to him. "My lord, loyalist reinforcements have arrived! They are breaking through our blockade. It appears to be made up of two Chapters."_

 _Phoros glared at his long-time friend and protector. His glare refocused on Huron, who was relayed similar information by his own guards. The Warmaster laughed, taunting and mockingly. Phoros vision started to redden, the Red Thirst attempting to assert itself but he quashed it, maintaining control._

" _They finally arrived!" More laughter followed. The Skyburner knew if he stayed, he would likely die, as would half his Chapter. Instead of dying, he ordered the retreat. It shamed him but he knew this war was far from over and he needed to survive to prosecute it._

 _As he ran to the landing zones where dropships were already taking off, his anger was stoked knowing he had been played by Huron. The bastard had drawn him in, and it had nearly worked._

From the Immaterium emerged two Chapter fleets. One was the three thousand strong Void Spectres, unquestioned masters of ship-to-ship combat. Right on their heels were the Scythes of the Emperor, almost five thousand Space Marines. Warmaster Huron knew that the two loyal Chapters were near, but had decided to not inform any of his brethren or allies, as he suspected spies in their midst, undoubtedly of which there were some. So the arrival of the Void Spectres and the Scythes came as a surprise to both forces, barring Huron, and their arrival turned the tide of battle.

The Void Spectres carved open a corridor through the traitor fleet, allowing the Scythes to land on Pireaus V unmolested. The Lamenters, Angels of Penance and Charnel Guard were already evacuating when the drop-pods and dropships of Mortarion's sons landed amongst them. The Battle of Pireaus V would continue another week, but the end wasn't in doubt.

The Imperial forces emerged victorious, and though they had suffered dearly, their losses were far more easily replaced than the rebels who had lost equivalent amount of soldiers and Astartes. In the Golgathan Wastes, the Carcharodons had soundly defeated the Charnel Guard and had laid waste to their homeworld. The Iron Hand warband that had assisted the Charnel Guard was thrashed, with the survivors relocated back to Badab Primaris to oversee the fortification of the planet and the expansion of its manufactoria to produce battle robots.

With Pireaus V secured, Falgur XII made a wasteland, and the rebels having suffered grievous, nearly-irreplaceable losses, the future looked bright for the Imperium as the year 905 came to a close and 906 began. To capitalise on his victories, Huron ordered advancement on all fronts.

The Star Phantoms captured the Archaea System, the Fire Hawks liberated Isin IV and Tagar. The Carcharodons raided and destroyed rebel supply lines throughout the Pale Stars, forcing many Militia garrisons that were left untouched to die a slow death of starvation. This sparked a wave of mutiny of Militia units, quickly supressed by the Apostles of Dessia, now almost numbering a thousand. The faith of Chaos Undivided spread like wildfire among rebel systems, granting Phoros the ability to more easily summon daemons and use warp magicks to levels so far unseen in the Badab War. This spread and forced conversion to belief in the Ruinous Powers also saw the Damned Cardinal Pael Thester emerge from the shadows and become very powerful within the Skyburner's empire. Many would say the former Imperial priest became too powerful, which would set the stage for the final months of the war.

Huron's victories ended in mid-906.M41 as the White Scar Marauders were redeployed with newly founded Militia regiments and the first line of battle robots produced on Badab Primaris and the other handful of Forge Worlds and Industrial Worlds under rebel control. The year ended with the war having ground to a halt. For the next year and a half, little more than minor engagements were fought as both sides repositioned and readied for the next phase of the war; the only notable event of worth was the arrival of almost the entirety of the Luna Wolves Chapter.

* * *

 **The Drive Forward: 909-912**

The year 909.M41 opened with a twin-pronged offensive by the loyalists, aimed at Sagan and Cygnax. Huron knew that the path to Badab Primaris was to liberate both worlds. For if either stood than his flanks would be dangerously exposed.

The campaign, called Operation Akimbo, saw nearly thirty worlds liberated by Imperial forces. The Pale Stars and the Magog Cluster were liberated in full, with significant portions of the Endymion Cluster taken from rebel hands before loyal forces were halted at the Fortress World of Khirab V. After nearly three years of relentless effort, Akimbo's principal objectives were in sight. To Sagan went the Astral Claws, Luna Wolves, Ultramarines, and the Fire Hawks. Deployed to Cygnax were the Salamanders, Executioners, Scythes of the Emperor, and the Star Phantoms. The Carcharodons had been sent to Khirab V alongside two companies of the Black Wardens to break the traitors' grip on the planet. The remained of the black Wardens would guard the flanks of the Imperial drive, but due to the rapid advancement of Huron's offensive, it spread the Black Wardens thin. For the Void Spectres, as was their want, departed for the rebels inner systems to wreak havoc and ensure the rebel populations were more terrified of Imperial retribution than the traitors. Nothing was heard of the Void Spectres until just prior to the final months of the war, only whispers of fields of flayed Militia soldiers left to die, orbital docks that became ship graveyards, and the assassination of several notable Astartes officers and Planetary Governors. Several rebel worlds collapsed into anarchy due the actions of that haunting Chapter.

Phoros had acted cautious since Pireaus V, not wanting to suffer irrecoverable losses, and decided to gravely wound the loyalists as they advanced. The worlds lost to Operation Akimbo were of little value to him, their populations largely still loyal to the Imperium and held little in the way of military significance. But to Sagan and Cygnax, many rebel units were deployed to. The Angels of Penance were sent to Cygnax, as were the Charnel Guard, understrength since the destruction of their homeworld. To Sagan went the Espandors, who still fielded almost five thousand battle-brothers.

The Skyburner for his part assembled what was left for a risky counter-attack into the Imperials soft underbelly, hoping to bisect the Imperium's forces. The Lamenters, barring a company's worth of battle-brothers which were spread out across the Badab Sector, and the Marauders and Iron Hand warband were readied for this attack. Though both warbands were not particularly large, and far outnumbered by a Chapter, the White Scars infamously fast ships would prove to be a great boon for the counter-attack and the Iron Hand-directed manufactoria on Badab Primaris had born fruit in the form of tens of thousands of battle robots and even several daemon engines to supplement the ones the Iron Hand warband already fielded.

* * *

 **The Gamble: 912-913**

Known in retrospect as Phoros' Gamble, the traitor counter-attack tore through the weakly defended Imperial flanks, easily overwhelming the thinly stretched Black Wardens and the unprepared Imperial Guard and Navy. For weeks the rebels, spearheaded by the Lamenters, advanced with little difficulty until stopped cold by a single company of the Black Wardens.

 _Captain Esel stood on the bridge of the battle-barge_ Unbreakable _, staring out at the large traitor armada advancing upon the Black Wardens Third Company, numbering four hundred and eighty-one battle-brothers. The company fleet mustered in the star system simply known as KX-43, and waited to die. Esel and his brothers' fates had been decided the moment he had ordered them to remain. But their deaths would not be in vain. The eighteen ships of the company fleet were in better condition than the traitors, and their coordination and trust in one another was unmatched by the mixed force quickly approaching. He would use his fleet's advantages to their maximum potential and cripple as many enemy ships as possible, anything to buy time for Chapter Master Helg and the rest of the Chapter to finish their entrenchments on a dozen worlds that would prevent the traitors from taking territory as easily as they had been._

 _But that would not be the only tactic Esel would deploy. The asteroid belt currently separating the loyalists and traitors was not empty, far from it. Fighter-bombers were arrayed all over, hiding in the recesses of craters, their mission to target engines and hangar bays. Requisitioned cargo ships filled to the brim with explosives were to be lie in wait and explode when an enemy ship's void shields were down. The crews, some volunteers, other pressed to perform this duty for the Imperium, knew they would not leave this system alive, and it made them more determined to accomplish their mission than they otherwise would have been._

" _Captain-" began the shipmaster._

" _I see it," Esel said. The first traitor ship, a White Scar frigate, entered the asteroid belt. Nothing happened to it. Another three ships entered, all destroyers. Then a strike cruiser entered. That was when the explosions began, when the dying started. "So it begins," he muttered._

In the inhabited star system of KX-43, the Black Wardens Third Company sacrificed themselves to slow down the traitor counter-attack. Many rebel warships were damaged or destroyed, notably the Marauders warband suffered grievous losses. Though the loyalist company was destroyed in its entirety, it had stopped the main traitor fleet from advancing for nearly two weeks, allowing loyalist forces redeployed from Cygnax to arrive. The Scythes of the Emperor and the Star Phantoms arrived to find the Lamenters, White Scars and Iron Hands unable to break through the Black Warden fortified worlds. With the arrival of reinforcements, Chapter Master Helg orchestrated his own offensive to push the traitors back.

It worked. Hundreds of traitor Astartes were killed, much of their fleet heavily damaged, and the Ghelok'shoankar warband was annihilated in its entirety, as was the battle robot army it commanded. Phoros ordered the retreat and when he arrived to Badab Primaris, he discovered that during his return from the failed offensive, Sagan had fallen to Huron and that the Espandors Lord Director Marceo Yucanda had died by Huron's blade. Not long after, Khirab V fell as well, now made a Dead World by Carcharodon hands. The caused the collapse of the traitor front in the Endymion Cluster, with Militia regiments disbanding or falling to in-fighting and mass surrender. Warmaster Huron personally thanked and honoured Helg, knowing that for a brief but critical juncture of time the Black Wardens had held the line and prevented a major catastrophe that could have easily evolved into an Imperial defeat in the Badab War. The actions of the Black Wardens during the Badab War, notably KX-43 and the battles immediately preceding and following it, saw to the Chapter being selected decades later by the Praetorian Council to become the new Praetorian Chapter of the Sol System, a position they hold as the Dark Millennium comes to a close.

Although it would take another year before Cygnax fell to the encroaching Imperials, due to the sudden redeployment of the Scythes and Star Phantoms, the end result of the war was now no longer in doubt. The unexpected arrival of the Tiger Claws, descendants of the Astral Claws who had answered the call for war, only further emphasised this fact.

* * *

 **In At The Death: 914-915**

The first to abandon Phoros were the Marauders. The White Scar warband had suffered heavy losses and with the war now unwinnable, left the Badab Sector, their holds full of slaves and war spoils. The Espandors, bereft of a capable leader, departed shortly afterwards for the Maelstrom where they promptly dissolved into dozens of warbands who would fight amongst themselves for scarce resources and territory.

Phoros, determined to see the war to its brutal end, recalled all remaining traitor Space Marines to the Badab System to make a defiant last stand. Prior to the return of the scattered Lamenters, Charnel Guard and Angels of Penance, plus what few hundred of the Espandors chose to stay and fight for him, treachery struck.

Pael Thester, the Damned Cardinal of Dessia, had planned for years to usurp power from Phoros. It is unknown if the Chaos fanatic wished to form a replica of the Dessian Union within the Badab Sector or to steal the vast stred war materials on Badab Primaris and flee elsewhere. What is known, however, is that Thester's coup utterly failed. The Lamenters who garrisoned the planet were outnumbered by the Apostles of Dessia, but were combat veterans all, while many of the Apostles were new to their transhumam bodies and had only fought in suppression actions against Emperor-loyal mortals across the sector.

Thester also did not account for the fury of one Malakim Phoros, nor for the acclaim Skyburner had garnered with the Four Gods. The Lord of Ruin had lost much during his rebellion but had ensued such death and destruction across the Zone that he was now looked upon favourably by the Fell Powers. The Chaos Gods bequeathed him gifts and poer, which quickly surpassed Thester's own. The Damned Cardinal, who had once been the catalyst of the corruption that had spread to hundreds of billions of humans and to hundreds of worlds, was now seen as tool to be discarded, his usefulness over.

Phoros killed Thester himself at the coup's climax. The distraught-stricken Apostles retrieved their father figure's body and fled to the Maelstrom, where they would enshrine Thester's corpse on a Daemon World. There they would fervently pray to it, hoping and begging for his soul's return but the Ruinous Powers have chosen not to grant this.

The Skyburner cemented his control over the Badab System with the assistance from the other rebel Chapters and for months they prepared. The Militia army stood at some seventeen million and the orbital defence infrastructure had been repaired since the Lamenter surprise attack in 903.M41, making it a formidable barrier the loyalists would have to overcome. The greatest weakness suffered by the traitors was their lack of Astartes. All told, less than seven thousand Space Marines still lived and followed the Lord of Ruin, while the Imperium still numbered in the tens of thousands. Nonetheless, the rebels would make their last stand at the sight of their first and greatest victory.

Warmaster Huron had not been idle in the last year of the war. The entire Badab Sector, barring his homeworld, had been liberated. The rest of the Maelstrom Zone that had suffered uprisings were now calm for the first time in over a decade; all coups and uprisings having been defeated. The Angels of Penance homeworld had been destroyed via the actions of the Void Spectres, and other key traitor worlds had been captured and cleansed of enemies to the Golden Throne. Huron organised what would be the final blow of the twelve year war. Dubbed Operation Rovik's Revenge, the Imperial Chapters would lead the invasion of the Badab System, supported by twenty-three million Guardsmen and hundreds of Imperial Navy warships.

The final battle of the Badab War began when the Imperial armada arrived, spearheaded by Huron's Astral Claws. It took days, but through much bloodshed and sacrifice, the loyalists overcame the extensive defence system that had been repaired since the First Battle of Badab. The Second Battle escalated when Imperial Space Marines descended to the surface of Badab Primaris. Compared to other major battles fought earlier in the war, the last battle was over fairly quickly, lasting less than a day.

But that one day was filled with such sorrow and heroics that they would fill entire tomes. The Astral Claws, only eight hundred still alive, led the drop-pod assault on their fortress-monastery: the Palace of Thorns. The Palace, made the headquarters of the Skyburner during the war, was assaulted by the Astral Claws, Tiger Claws, Star Phantoms, Ultramarines and Luna Wolves. The Fire Hawks, Scythes of the Emperor, and Salamanders secured the surrounding hive districts, while the Carcharodons and Executioners engaged the enemy fleet in orbit with the support of the Void Spectre fleet. The Void Spectres themselves scattered across the hives, sometimes only in squad strength, and used their specialty with psychological-based terror warfare to destabilise Militia control over the hive cities, encouraging the local residents to rise up against their oppressors.

The battle's climax began when Warmaster Lufgt Huron confronted Malakim Phoros in the Palace of Thorns throne room. Both fought skilfully and both were wounded, but it would be Lufgt Huron who fell to the ground near-dead due to the extensive wounds he suffered. Before the killing blow could be delivered however, the loyalist Astartes swarmed their fallen commander, protecting his body and forcing the traitors back.

Shortly thereafter, the battle clearly lost for the rebels and the loyalists having suffered grievous losses, Phoros ordered the retreat of remaining traitor forces. The Lord of Ruin led the rebellion's remnants to the Maelstrom, where it was hoped that they would dissolve and face infighting as was the nature of Chaos. This would not be the case as Phoros united the surviving Lamenters and Charnel Guard into the Crimson Ravagers. The Espandors that had fought on Badab Primaris also joined this new formed Chaos warband. The Angels of Penance, aside from a few score Space Marines that followed Phoros into the Maelstrom, fractured into numerous small warbands and scattered throughout the Imperium. Most would be hunted down by the Imperium, spearheaded by the Watchers Eternal and several First Legion-descended Chapters, while the few survivors made their way to the Eye of Terror and other similar safe havens.

The Imperium was victorious but had suffered greatly during the war. The mortal wounding of Lufgt Huron delayed celebration and the entire sector held its breath, waiting to see if their Liberator survived.

 _The bright surgical lights showed clearly the extensive damage that wracked his body. Blood leaked from his opened chest and where his right arm and side used to be in droves, pooling around the stone slab's base. His face was a shredded mess. Both legs were gone below the thigh, lost to a plasma grenade. The pain was intense, almost overbearing. He could feel his consciousness slipping as his body was shutting down in the attempt to heal itself. An attempt that it would fail, the damage to his body too severe._

" _My lord," intoned the Tiger Claws' Chief Apothecary, who would take the lead on the first half of the surgery. Alchemancer Armanneus Valthex waited nearby; he would lead the second half of the surgery that would fuse to him augmetics and a unique suit of power armour of Valthex's own creation. "Are you ready?"_

 _He had done it. He had won. He had watched as the coward Phoros left with his tail between his legs, fleeing to the warp storm with his rabble. The Badab War was over, the sector liberated. If Huron died, at least his revenge against the traitors had been successful. At least Rovik Blake had been avenged._

" _Do it," was all he said before unconsciousness overwhelmed him, basking him in darkness._

After days of surgery, the threat of death ever present, Huron finally rose from the surgical table in a suit of life-preserving power armour, meaning he would live but his wounds prevented him from ever taking it off fully. His right arm now ended in a lightning claw, a gift from the Luna Wolves Chapter. Much of his face was replaced with augmetics, as were both legs. The Astral Claw Chapter Master, now called Huron the Lionheart and Liberator of Badab by the adoring masses of the Imperium, relinquished his Warmaster title and would spend decades rebuilding the Badab Sector.

With three of the Warder Chapters having fallen to Chaos and the Accipiters nearly destroyed, the High Lords considered the reinforcement of the Maelstrom Zone a top priority. To rectify the weakness of the Warders, the Star Phantoms and Fire Hawks were given homeworlds within the Badab Sector due to their immaculate service during the war.

For the next seventy-five years the Maelstrom Zone experienced relative peace and prosperity as it rebuilt. The Badab Sector, once thrashed by the war, now thrived. The Iron Cage, particularly the Badab Gate was reinforced and expanded. The local Navy presence experienced rapid growth, finally being recognised as a battlefleet in the 940s. The Guard was similarly enlarged, fielding a billion soldiers across the Zone by millennium's end.

The peace and prosperity came to an end in early 990.M41. Malakim Phoros had united many of the Maelstrom's warbands under his Crimson Ravagers' banner and launched a tentative raid into the Zone. He did not attack the Badab Sector, as it was too heavily fortified, but instead the Nuestra Sector.

Long seen as an underpopulated backwater, the Nuestra Sector sported little in the way of fortifications. This was not due to negligence on the Imperium's part, but rather that there was no stable path to travel between the Maelstrom and Nuestra, making the need for Fortress Worlds and large garrisons a costly endeavour. Yet worryingly, this did not stop Phoros who raided the vulnerable sector, pillaging its worlds and enslaving millions of its people. By the time Imperial forces led by the Lionheart arrived, the Chaos Space Marines were gone. Investigations of the stormwall separating Nuestra and the warp storm were carried out by Space Marine Librarians, Mechanicum specialists and Inquisition agents, yet all were unable to answer how Phoros was able to navigate through the Maelstrom's volatile edges. Many concluded it was a fluke, a random opening of the stormwall that separated the Immaterium from the Materium, but some, including the Liberator of Badab, have hypothesised that Phoros has either some technological marvel or foul daemonic assistance that allows him to create small openings in the stormwall to attack previously thought safe border systems.

As a precaution, Huron ordered every star system that bordered the Maelstrom to be put on high alert, regardless if the system had ever been attacked or not. The Maelstrom Reserve was deployed to shore up these systems in the case of an attack, and companies of the Warders now patrol more and more worlds, spreading themselves thin in the process. Huron realises it is likely what Phoros wants, but he cannot concentrate his forces in only a few areas whilst letting the rest of the Zone fall which would lead to even greater difficulties. Huron has petitioned the High Lords for help but with recent events in the galaxy demanding their attention and the Imperium's stretched resources, Huron understands that help will either be minimal or non-existent.

Even more problematic, the Warders long time fear of Chaos warbands within the Maelstrom communicating with their more powerful counterparts in the Eye of Terror was proven real when an Astral Claw company fleet discovered and defeated a traitor squadron belonging to the Sons of Fulgrim who had recently returned from a diplomatic mission to the Lord of Ruin. The Third Legion commander, a member of the powerful Tyberkenna, was arrested and sent to Terra for questioning. It is unknown what exactly was discussed or transpired between Sakaeron's chosen representative and the Lord of the Crimson Ravagers, but it undoubtedly will not bode well for the Imperium.

As the 41st Millennium comes to a close, the Maelstrom Zone readies itself for what many fearfully whisper are the End Times. Even the return of several Loyalist Primarchs in early 999.M41 have not banished these worries altogether. Though the Zone has been rebuilt, the Iron Cage strengthened, it may still not be enough to contain the Chaos forces within the Maelstrom, nor the forces that encroach on the Zone from elsewhere, such as the Tau. As the enemies of Mankind encroach, the Imperium waits with dread, unsure if it will survive the oncoming storm.

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Next update will be the prologue to Long War sub-series. First will be a second timeline-wide edit/refinement (patch 1.2). I am putting this timeline on Spacebattles in the near future and want the Fulgrimian Heresy to be as polished as possible. It will mainly be focused grammatical fixes, maybe some details and story matters being added or subtracted. I will detail the patch notes when I upload the next chapter.

Great news for FH readers! Nemris on DeviantArt has created a fantastic art piece showing War Commander Tyberius Sakaeron in all his horrid glory. It really captures the character. Go check him out!


	28. TLW - Prologue

**The Long War**

 **Prologue**

It was quiet. That was the first thing I noticed, awakening from a deep drug-induced slumber. Lifting my head took effort, it took time. But time was plentiful. Minutes might have passed, possibly hours before I was able to lift my head. The pitch-black darkness didn't help matters on tracking the day's passage. How long had I been here? Days? Weeks? The chamber was windowless, stone-made walls had runic wards carved into them, with only a single door leading into and out of the high-security room. The stillness of it all assaulted my senses.

In the Eye, there were ever the whispers of daemons and tormented souls that wailed for salvation. But here, deep in the Fortress of the Inquisition buried beneath Terra's south polar cap, there was nothing but silence. It was at once both calming and agitating. I had grown used to the warp's touch, its soft but damnable caress. The Fortress' psychic dampeners and null-fields were quite effective, as were the bonds that chained me to the wall. Amazing that I could be so close to the Emperor's Light and not detect its powerful resonance. Ironic then, that I could sense His power in the hell that is the Great Storm, but on Mankind's Cradle, the home of the Golden Throne, it is beyond my senses.

The lumen strips along the room's sides suddenly blinked on. The thick adamantium door swung open, seven individuals entering. The first two wore the steel-grey of the Grey Knights, their bolters loaded and Nemesis blades nearby, ready to be used if necessary. One was a servitor, who walked stiffly towards the room's single, simple iron table. The lobotomised serf pushed a cart, piled with blank parchment paper, vials of ink and a set of quills. After putting a thick stack of yellow-white parchment on the table, the servitor sat down onto a small stool and readied its writing utensils.

The remaining four were Inquisitors. Not low ranking members of that organisation, oh no, not to interrogate him. Two Lords and two Ladies of various Ordos stood before me, their attire and stances very different from each other. The only similarity they shared was an intense gaze. They knew who I was. How could they not? When I was captured, I told the captors my name and rank. The Astral Claws who captured me were stunned at who was now in their custody.

Brought before Huron the Lionheart in chains, I repeated who I was. The Liberator of Badab turned me over to the local Inquisitors, who in turn, drugged me into a coma and transported me to Terra. The Inquisition retested everything. Blood samples, archived picts and vid-captures. They had a lot to reference from, over ten thousand years' worth of data. Once the Inquisition was sure of the identity of their prisoner, I became lashed to this wall for what I assumed had been several days.

They debated whether to kill me. For that I cannot blame them. My sins and crimes would drown worlds in their number. But someone somewhere did not want me dead. Not yet, at least. They wished to interrogate me. They probably wanted to mind-delve, but such a procedure is highly risky and the possibility to cause irreparable memory loss and brain damage was too great. There was no need for any such interrogative methods, however. I volunteered to tell them everything. Nothing could hurt my brothers or the prosecution of the Long War, not at this stage. Besides, he would want me to inform them. The Inquisitors stood before me, ready to hear my tale. I licked my lips, cleared my throat and spoke for the first time in days.

"You have come to hear my story."

The most senior Lord Inquisitor, a man who had presented himself under the name of Jakeb, spoke, "We have."

"Good, good. Before I begin, is there anything you wish to ask me?"

"Yes," said one, a young-looking woman by the name of Anya who must have earned her position through success and sacrifice. I could relate to that. "Why tell us information about the Third Legion, about its warlords, its history?"

I wasn't quiet for long. My journey from the Maelstrom to Sol left plenty of time for contemplation.

"It is what he would want me to do."

"Who?" she asked.

"Tyberius Sakaeron."

The other woman gasped to hear the name spoken aloud; the so far silent male formed the Aquila as if to ward off evil. I chuckled at the absurdity.

"And why would he want that?" asked Inquisitor Anya after a moment of collecting herself.

"The servitor should ready it's quill."

I craned my neck, stretching the muscles as the servitor opened an ink vial, dipping a quill's tip into the black liquid and positioned its writing hand over the paper.

"We know much about you. The Imperium, I mean. And you know of the Vengeance Crusades, the wars waged by us on territory we conquered millennia ago under the Corpse-Emperor's banner. But you do not know us, not truly. Our motives, our beliefs, our grudges and our hatreds are unknown to you. You may know some but not nearly the depth of our desire for vengeance. You are the false inheritors of an empire forged with blood and metal. You are mere children to those of us who have fought the Long War all these many centuries. And children should be educated by their betters."

The four Inquisitors frowned but said nothing.

"I will tell you our origins and our perspective. I will tell you why my brothers take up arms against the empire we created so long ago. To know is to understand and that will ready you for the era to come. I tell you all I know freely because when Sakaeron lands on Terra at the head of the greatest army ever assembled, he will rip that half-decayed false god off His Throne of lies. Then and only then, when the stars die and a species screams in torment as the lost angels at long last return home, will you truly know who we are and why we fight. You will understand, finally and fully, right before our blades pierce your heart in the killing blow."

I exhaled, choosing my next words with thought.

"To understand the Sons of Fulgrim and the power we now wield, first you must understand our near-extinction. The Heresy broke us, the Scouring isolated us, the Succession War weakened us, and the Legion Wars almost destroyed us. Another few centuries and the Phoenician's bloodline would have ended, inglorious and in shame. One man saved the Third Legion; one man brought it back from the brink, one man made the Imperium shudder just by the utterance of his name. Tyberius Sakaeron, Heir of Fulgrim, called the Deceiver by allies and foes alike, Master of the Third Legion and War Commander of Chaos, is that man."

The servitor's scratching quill stopped when I did. I gathered my thoughts for what would be a long tale of death, loss and revenge.

"For every end, there is a beginning, and this is most assuredly the end. The Dark Millennium is coming to a close; the Imperium is wracked by war and beset on all sides. When my brother unleashes the Traitor Legions spearheaded by his Sons of Fulgrim, Cadia will fall. The Imperium is in its death throes. No matter how strong you appear or the advantages you have, they are inadequate for what is to come.

"Now, as I said. For every end, there is a beginning. The beginning is relative to who is speaking. For me, the beginning began a hundred years after I entered the Eye."

"What happened?" asked Anya after a pregnant pause.

"I arrived with a decimated Chapter, driven mad by a genetic flaw, acting as playthings to a bloodthirsty god. I do not remember much of what happened during that century. The Red Thirst was in control at the time, with only bouts of lucid sanity every few years. To start this epic tale, I will begin by how I crossed paths with Sakaeron."

The iron grey haired Lord Inquisitor Jakeb spoke then. "Speak your name for the record."

I nodded. Everything of import must be noted, must be chronicled for history's sake.

"I am Nassir Amit, the Flesh Tearer, Butcher of Thurra, the Angel's Scourge, a lord of the Tyberkenna and the Executioner of Sakaeron. I am the Herald of the Crimson Path. Everything I am about to say is true."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** This is merely the opening to what I hope will be an entertaining sub-series within the FH. Special thanks to Nemris for beta reading it.

I am currently a little over halfway through my Fulgrimian Heresy 1.2 patch edit. The rest should be done soon. I'll likely do a few more 'The Long War' chapters, then I'll tackle the Iron Hands Index which I'm really excited to show everyone.


	29. TLW - Chapter One

**The Long War**

 **Chapter One**

As I begin this opening act of my long account, I must first note the situation in the Great Eye to provide context. When the Eight Legions and their allies fled a vengeful Imperium during the Scouring, six true Legions escaped to the Eye of Terror, it acting as both a sanctum and prison. These were the White Scars, Iron Hands, World Eaters, Thousand Sons, Word Bearers and, of course, the Sons of Fulgrim. For a little over a century, there was a semblance of peace. Not true peace, mind you, but rather contained, limited engagements. Nothing larger than individual warbands fighting one another was the norm. The Third Legion had fractured and was preoccupied with murdering itself into extinction. Others saw the weakness of my adopted Legion and acted akin to carrion birds, picking away at the III's vitality. I do not decry them for this as it made us only stronger in the end.

When the Legion Wars began in all their horrid might, they raged across the Great Storm for two hundred years before Sakaeron revealed himself at Karaashi Station, uniting the bulk of the III under his command. It was there he publically declared himself as the Heir of Fulgrim and Second War Commander. It would take centuries of unending war before those claims were grudgingly recognised by all Eight Legions, but acknowledged they would be in time.

Many sought to quell the Third Legion's ascendance. Sekhet the Eyeless, Crixus Dreadaxe, Naran Batu, and Typhon the Black are just some of whom rejected Sakaeron and his unification of the III. Some hated the Third Legion for the Heresy's failure, others for my brother's claim to War Commander. But one warlord threatened the fragile unity Sakaeron had brought to most of Fulgrim's bloodline. He dared to challenge my oath-brother's claim, thinking himself the Phoenician's true heir. He was Eidolon, former Lord Commander Primus of the Sons of Fulgrim First Millennial.

It was Eidolon in those early years who threatened to destabilise the Third Legion, which if successful would have hampered Sakaeron's plans for the Long War in ways none of us could truly predict. Though later we fought rivals greater in power and military strength, it was Eidolon who was a festering thorn in the side of a recovering brotherhood. The former Lord Commander Primus would be the first, but certainly not the last, to nearly destroy our dream of vengeance.

My arrival to the Eye was two hundred years after the Heresy, the Legion Wars having been waged for over a hundred years with furious hate to make the Heresy seem tame in comparison. My Flesh Tearers, who had once numbered five thousand when we threw off the shackles of the Emperor's minions, numbered less than a thousand when we arrived to our refuge of the damned. The Chapter quickly splintered into dozens of warbands, led by captains and champions who I could no longer control, and at the time I did not care. Such was the Red Thirst's control over me.

The two hundred and six that remained with their Chapter Master fought as mercenaries for decades, gaining much in recognition but also taking heavy losses. At that time, I had consigned myself to die within the Great Storm. My highest aspiration at the time was accumulate spoils and glory for Khorne. Ironically, it would be my encounter with Eidolon that would set me upon a different path.

* * *

The planet had been ruined when the Children of Isha created Slaanesh as a result of their infamous depraved hedonism. The shock of that violent birth formed the Eye of Terror, and entire worlds were consumed. Some were only half-so, case in point the planet dominating the view-screen. Its surface had been deeply fractured, magma flows leaking into the void, cooling to form long strings of cooled rock leading from low orbit to the planet's core. Large chunks of rock hovered in the atmosphere and void, slowly circling around the world. The physics were impossible but such things were common enough within the Eye. The world, or what was left of it, was known as Baddakûr and it was my target. Or rather it housed my target.

I stood upon the bridge of _Victus_ , the battle-barge that had seen centuries of service under me. My capital ship was now my last, the rest of the Chapter fleet having either long destroyed or been commandeered by those that abandoned me.

I had awoken hours earlier after weeks in my sarcophagus. The long sleep submerged in blood helped keep the Red Thirst at bay, though it ever clawed at my sentience. The mortal crew of the ship were long dead, only their bones and servitors now manned the bridge cogitator-consoles.

Standing behind me, adorned in their battle-plate, stood my inner circle. Captain Casca, my ambitious second in command who devoted himself to the Blood God, had arms folded and stared longingly at the view-screen, itching to bask in the gory entrails of foes. Jekaar, my last Apothecary, twitched, his muscles hyper-active. He had been awake for too long and would need to be put into a sarcophagus soon, lest he lose himself to the Thirst. Derrius, senior Techmarine and my personal armourer was almost entirely formed of augmetics now, all but several internal organs. He looked more like an Iron Tenth radical rather than the Space Marine he had been a century ago. The last two Astartes were Sidka and Wilscer, Librarian and Champion respectively.

We stared as _Victus_ neared; sensors and Sidka searching for potential enemies on both planes of existence. To any with a cursory look, the system was empty. Either there were none or they were incredibly well hidden. But we knew better. Our target was here.

"It's a trap," muttered Wilscer, blood dribbling down his chin as steel-tipped teeth bit into gums.

"Of course it is," sneered Jekaar. "Geir is no fool. The Untamed lost heavily on Ferros. His fleeing here is a last desperate ploy to bleed us dry before his skull is laid before the Brass Throne." The Apothecary shrugged. "It is more tactical than I would have given the Wolves credit for, though."

I was silent as my inner circle talked, largely ignoring their pointless talk. I had fought beside the Wolves several times since the Great Crusade and afterwards. They appeared and acted akin to barbarians of legend, but I knew better. Under their leather masks and bone ornaments, they were skilled warriors and shrewd in their own way.

Geir, warlord-jarl of the Untamed, was a former Space Wolf. According to rumour, the son of Russ led over a hundred battle-brothers into the Eye of Terror to hunt Magnus. Some said Geir and his warriors were banished by the Wolf King, others said they were ordered there. None were too sure, but what was known without a doubt was that the Wolves came to the Eye and were corrupted by it.

Now the former Space Wolves called themselves the Untamed and fought for Slaanesh. They, like the Flesh Tearers, were a minor warband, pledging their services to those more powerful. Eight months ago, two alliances fought one another at Ferros. Flesh Tearers on one side, Untamed on the other. Grudges were made that day. Now, after hunting down Geir for months, we had cornered him and his ilk.

I flexed my hand, impatient as the _Victus_ neared the planet.

"Any sign of their ship?" I asked the tech-priest who effectively commanded the vessel and its servitor crew.

"Not yet, my lord," answered the hunched mechanical figure, oily mechandendrites slithering in the air behind it.

"Find it." The ship was only a strike cruiser, but the _Victus_ was not the battle-barge it once was. A lack of proper maintenance and a century of sailing through the Eye had changed it in ways that you in the Imperium would find hard to imagine. Corridors made of muscle, steel flanks that bled ichor, and more showed the battle-barge's mutations by the Empyrean's influence.

"Auspex, scan the planet."

"Compliance," replied the servitor merged with the auspex control cogitator.

Several moments passed before the servitor spoke again, "Lord, I'm detecting emissions from a mountain in the south-west quadrant of the planet."

"Bring it up."

"Compliance."

The main view-screen blinked on, displaying a large indomitable mountain among a chain of its lesser brethren. Static flickered across the cracked screen.

"Enhance."

"Compliance."

The image magnified and then cleared. Several Thunderhawks were revealed under half-torn cameoline tarps, situated halfway up the mountain where a landing pad and a gaping entrance that led inwards was located.

"They do like their mountains," I muttered. Turning, my Tartaros Terminator plate damaged with paint flaking off and screeching as metal parts grinded against one another, I moved towards the bridge doors.

"Come," I uttered, the Thirst rising, "Time to kill."

* * *

The drop-pods of the last of the Flesh Tearers fell to the cracked earth of Baddakûr like the angels of old descending to enact retribution on the wicked. As I sat latched into my drop-pod's shock-throne, it reminded me of when I fought for Sanguinius. We were the Angels of Blood, the Emperor's Angels, but that was long ago. No longer harbingers of justice or order, but of wanton death.

The drop-pods passed a hovering mass of rock and dirt, bits and pieces falling slowly while others rose to replace them. None impacted against it, the drop-pods' machine-spirits still aware enough to maneuverer them away from such obvious danger.

"Three…" came the machine-spirit, warning of impending impact.

"Two…" I took a deep breath, pushing back against the Thirst's attempt at control.

"One."

The drop-pod slammed into the ground, pod door bolting violently open with a loud bang, and as the shock-throne released me, I walked out ready for war.

The first Untamed I killed was snarling like a rabid dog. He died like that, too. My chainfists tore the armour as if it were wet paper. Leather, armour, bone and gore clogged the 'fists, but cleared with their constant revving. The next two died by the storm bolter built into the armour's gauntlets. My Flesh Tearers, numbering seventy-eight, tore into our enemy, wary of any tricks. We fought through the outer defences, lightly manned by a handful of Space Marines and Slaaneshi cult-thralls.

The opening led into a hangar bay, immense in size though few orbital or aerial vehicles occupied it aside from several more Thunderhawks and a squadron of fighter craft. Once secure, it was time to finish what began on Ferros.

"Casca, take half and secure the lower levels. Derrius hold here with your squad. Jekaar," I turned to my Apothecary who was beginning to take gene-seed from a fallen Tearer, "stay with him. We'll send our dead here for gland retrieval." I looked back to Derrius, "Do not let this position be taken back. Rest of you, follow me."

I headed towards the top of the mountain, knowing that was where Geir would be. The more Untamed and well-armed thralls I slaughtered, the more the Thirst pounded in my head, coursing through my veins like a virus. It was getting harder to maintain a clear head. A handful of my brothers succumbed to it, screaming and acting like beasts more than transhuman. We let them charge the enemy, better they die for us to live. When the battle was over, the survivors would be restrained and placed in a sarcophagus to recover. Until then, I let them go rampant.

We faced traps, kill-boxes, and suicidal thralls clutching det-charges. I lost more Astartes as we fought and bled our way upwards. Each death of my brothers edged me further and further along to succumbing to the Angel's gene-flaw. But Geir was my target and thus gave me a mission, a purpose to continue onwards. Without such motivation, I would be lost to the tides of insanity.

Knowing I was soon to lose control despite my will, I bit deep into the neck of an Untamed killed by Wilscer. I drank the foul Fenrisian blood as if it were a fine wine. Narcotics and more flooded the fallen Wolf's bloodstream but with the Thirst's grip beginning to tighten I cared little for such things. As the Thirst's grip relaxed to a point I could control it, I moved steadily, allowing my transhuman body to purge the narcotics. Once myself again, I led the way to Geir's lair.

Communication with the _Victus_ had been lost, not uncommon in this unstable region of the Eye, but I could still hear Casca. He was entering the lower levels and was facing dug-in resistance. Casca kept yelling prayers to Khorne before I severed my link with him. I did not care for such reminders that my fate wasn't my own any longer. Detaching several squads to secure the multitude of floors we advanced through thinned my numbers until only my command squad remained when we reached the peak.

Entering the top chamber revealed six Astartes standing before dirtied glass windows that oversaw the uniquely broken landscape. Geir with his cloak made from the skin of stretched faces locked in ecstasy was easy to spot. The five below must have been his bodyguard or elite. My own bodyguard, now only numbering three, took their place at my side, supplemented by Wilscer and Sidka. Six versus six, the bastard scions of two loyal primarchs prepared to kill each other. Geir made the first move and I rushed to meet him, our respective guards engaging with their counterpart. Oddly enough, in the corner, stood a human mortal, decked in fine clothing with a necklace of a wolf's tooth gilded in gold. I ignored him, as all Astartes did to an unarmed mortal when more worthy foes beckoned.

Geir wielded a double handed power axe against my chainfists. My storm bolters had run dry in our push towards the peak and so were not a factor in our melee. We met, former Wolf fought former Angel. It was not a glorious battle, nor one that lasted long. Geir might be a predator and a hunter but I was a killer. What had begun on Ferros as a blood-feud ended with the jarl's helm detached from his body, clutched between armoured fingertips. I reached in and pulled the head out, seeing a snarling face with defiant yellow eyes and elongated teeth. I plucked the two canines out as a trophy with my fingers. I lost a bodyguard and Sidka, but my remaining two guards and Wilscer finished the other Untamed.

"Casca."

No response.

"Captain Casca, respond immediately."

The vox was silent until it hissed and popped into clarity. A voice I had never heard before spoke back, low and rumbling.

"He's dead. You're next."

"Who are you?" I asked, curious and amused.

"Sergeant Vidar. Is Geir dead?"

"Yes."

"Then I have to thank you for my promotion."

"Congratulations, Jarl Vidar. I will kill you too."

A growl that may have been laughter was the response. "You can try." The link cut out.

Checking with my Space Marines, I had lost thirty-six, most of who were with Casca in his assault. Regrouping with Derrius and proceeding downward was our best chance for victory.

"Derrius, bring out flamers and storm shields. We'll drag this wolf out of his hole even if we have to pull by the tail."

"Copy, lord. We-" An explosion echoed over the vox and was even felt in the mountain, as the walls rumbled slightly. "Lord, they came out of nowhere! There are hundreds of them. I-" A last explosion was heard before silence.

Before I could respond to this newest development, I smelt something over the reek of ruptured organs and spilt blood: a reek of ozone, followed by cranial pressure and an itch at the base of my tongue informing me of incoming teleportation.

The subsequent thunderclap was expected. The arrival of thirty Astartes, eleven of them in Cataphractii plate, was not. Purple and gold with a phoenix on the chestplate displayed all that the Sons of Fulgrim had arrived. Other colours and sigils were seen, but the Third Legion's iconography and livery were dominant.

The helmless Space Marine at its head was known to me. We had fought beside each other during the Great Crusade several times. Both of us were known warriors in that better time and the times that followed.

"Ah, Nassir," spoke Lord Commander Primus Eidolon, Master of the Flawless Host, "Now this is a surprise."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Nassir Amit's story continues. I plan to finish this arc before I start the Iron Hands Index. Should be only a few more chapters.

A Guest reviewer wanted a list of Traitor and Loyal Legions, and I realize by this point there could be confusion with all the naming and switching of allegiances, so I will clarify below.

 **Loyal Legions:**

Dark Angels

Iron Warriors (defends Terra during the Siege)

Space Wolves

Imperial Fists (defends Terra during the Siege)

Blood Angels

Ultramarines

Death Guard

Sons of Horus (defends Terra during the Siege)

Salamanders

Raven Guard (defends Terra during the Siege)

 **Traitor Legions:**

Sons of Fulgrim (Chaos Undivided)

White Scars (Slaanesh)

Night Lords (Chaos Undivided)

Iron Hands (Chaos Undivided)

World Eaters (Khorne)

Thousand Sons (Tzeentch)

Word Bearers (Chaos Undivided)

Alpha Legion (Chaos Undivided)

 **Traitor Auxiliary Astartes:**

Calibanite Independents (traitor Dark Angels, led by Sar Luther, defending Caliban)

Black Legion (Nurgle) (traitor Death Guard, led by Typhon, fighting beside the War Commander on his drive to Terra)

Chainsworn (traitor Raven Guard, led by Shade Lord Arkhas Fal, fighting beside the World Eaters)

There are also Blackshield units, some loyal, others traitor and some even neutral.

There are also Loyal and Traitor Chapters mentioned throughout the FH story.

 **Loyalist Chapters:**

Star Phantoms (I origin)

The Entombed (XIV origin)

Scythes of the Emperor (XIV origin)

Dark Sons (XIII origin)

Astral Claws (XIII origin)

Tiger Claws (XIII origin)

Fire Hawks (XIII origin)

Bronze Hounds (+Classified+)

Void Spectres (+Classified+)

Imperial Paladins (+Classified+)

Carchardons (XIX origin)

Black Wardens (IV origin)

Steel Brethren (IV origin)

Iron Hearts (IV origin)

Doom Warriors (IV origin)

Silver Skulls (IV origin)

Black Templars (VII origin)

Executioners (VII origin)

Storm Krakens (VI origin)

Wolf Brothers (VI origin)

Grey Knights (+Classified+)

Accipiters (XVI origin)

Luna Wolves (XVI origin)

 **Traitor Chapters (not warbands of the Eight Legions):**

Flesh Tearers (IX origin, fell to Khorne two centuries after the Heresy)

Lamenters (IX origin)

Angels of Penance (renamed Angels of Damnation post-Badab War) (I origin)

Charnel Guard (IX origin)

White Stalwarts (renamed to Apostles of Dessia by Cardinal Pael Thester in M41)

Espandors

I'm sure I missed some Chapters, but these are the ones that came to mind. The ones that don't have a gene-seed origin are left that way on purpose as I haven't settled on their origins.


	30. TLW - Chapter Two

**The Long War**

 **Chapter Two**

"…this is a surprise." Eidolon shrugged and gestured towards us. I expected bolts, but instead was hit by graviton shots. I could feel my armour locking up, the machine-spirit temporarily cast into electronic slumber. My armour became heavy, unresponsive. Welscer and my guards were hit as well in quick succession. All four were still as if frozen. Eidolon walked up to me, a mask of supreme arrogance plastered on his face. His long white hair falling to the left while the right side of his scalp remained bare.

The lord of the Flawless Host put his opened gauntlet upon my chestplate.

"I must say I'm disappointed. I expected _the_ Flesh Tearer to be more formidable," he whispered, leaning closer to my ear, "yet here we are. Truly, it's a miracle you won the war." He pushed and I fell backwards, unable to move. As my entrapped body fell, the advanced Terminator armour creating cracks in the stone floor, control over my mind began to slip. The sanguine veil was descending over my eyes. The Red Thirst had broken the cracks in my will.

The last thing I saw was Eidolon's raised boot.

"Welcome to hell, cousin."

The boot fell.

* * *

I awoke sometime later, dazed, skull pounding as if something was beating my skull with a hammer. The sanguine veil had withdrawn somewhat. I saw what had made it so, lying in the corner were two dozen mortal corpses, their flesh torn open and their bones splintered and gnawed upon. In my flawed state I must have consumed them, taming the beast within. My armour and weapons were gone, a dirtied robe my only piece of clothing. The prison cell was empty but for me. I pulled and stretched but the chains were thick and strong, allowing little manoeuvrability.

We were in a dungeon of some sort, without a doubt still within the Untamed's mountain redoubt. Rust coloured water dripped from the ceiling, and thick steel bars locked us in the room. Outside the single cell entrance stood two Sons of Fulgrim, watching inwards with weapons clasped tightly, and red eye lenses staring me down.

I coughed wetly, blood-tinged saliva dropping from my mouth onto the dirt and stone floor. One of the III legionnaires must have notified someone, for within moments of my lucidity returning, a bald Apothecary stood before, inspecting me from behind the metal bars. Satisfactory that I was awake, he opened the door and walked in, the two guards edging nearer but still remaining outside.

The Apothecary raised a needle with crimson liquid inside and injected it into my throat. Some minor additions were detected, but almost all was normal blood. The sanguine veil withdrew further.

"And you are?" I asked, after taking a moment to collect myself.

"Apothecary Daius Velleium."

I spat a mouthful of spit at the base of Daius' feet. "Never heard of you."

If the Apothecary was offended, he hid it well behind a foolish smirk. "No matter, I know all about you Flesh Tearer, you and your flaw."

"Congratulations. Want a prize?"

"Ah, defiance, that's good. It shows you will be hard to break."

"What do you plan to do with me?"

The Apothecary cocked his head slightly. "Study you, of course. The more I know of your flaw, the more my lord can exploit it." The Son of Fulgrim motioned forward a surgical servitor and three mortal assistants decked in white apparel, carrying tables of sharp blades and needles. "Now, we begin."

* * *

I was tortured for weeks, though Daius always called it experimentation or something to that effect. Injection after injection, surgery after surgery, and more were done to me. I weathered through it all. Several of my brothers could not endure, though. Jekaar was the first to die. My Apothecary brother had been too long without a sarcophagus' sleep, his mind and body vulnerable to the Thirst. When it took over, the Thirst's dominance was unrelenting to the point that he could not be brought back from its infernal clutches. Daius tried several times with several methods but all failed. Eventually, the son of the Phoenician executed my brother with a bolt to the skull, and then discarded his corpse in my cell.

To my shame, I feasted upon his flesh when the Thirst became too great.

The next to die was Derrius, his augmentics violently stripped from him, only to be replaced by pain-engines similar to the Butcher's Nails Angron's Berserkers wore but far more insidious. The device, instead of increasing strength and rage, targeted nerve clusters and organs, racking them with intense pain. Derrius held out for days, his half-corpse thrown into my cell to torment me, but after six days of fighting it, the pain became overwhelming. The Techmarine screamed, oh how he screamed, and screamed, and _screamed_. Eventually, his body gave out; even transhuman physiology was no match for such agony.

More of my Flesh Tearers were brought to die before me, each killed in a different way. Daius' assistants recorded it all, allowing their master to return to me with newly inspired methods of suffering. Still, I endured.

Sons of Sanguinius were not the only ones that suffered Daius' attentions. The bloodcurdling howls of the Untamed echoed through the stone hallways of their former refuge, declaring a fate we now shared.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, my chains were unlocked. My body, so long had it been prodded, cut open, electrocuted, injected and flayed, that it was numb. I fell to the floor, breathing heavily in pain as muscles long restricted were now allowed freedom.

The cell door clacked open, and there stood Daius.

"I swear to you, Daius…" I panted," …by all the gods… I will… kill you."

The Apothecary laughed and moved aside for the other two warriors of the Flawless Host to lift me up. Daius injected me with a light green liquid filled with a cocktail of powerful sedatives, locking my muscles further and making them unresponsive to even the most basic commands.

I was dragged to the central lift alongside Wilscer, and two Untamed Astartes from elsewhere in the dungeon. All of us showed similar signs of torture, and each had two guards holding them upright. Oddly enough the Untamed had muzzles over the lower half of their faces which seemed to amuse Daius' to no end, who flicked one of the former Space Wolf's nose like an annoyed master would to a disobedient hound.

The Untamed in question snarled, attempting to break free but the sedative still coursed strongly through his veins. The Slaaneshi Astartes looked at me, amber eyes full of hate and pleasure in equal measure.

After almost thirty minutes of clambering to the top, the lift ended, doors clattering open. The mountain's peak chamber had changed greatly since I had been imprisoned. The animal skins that once covered the floor were replaced with purple and gold rugs, Legion and warband banners adorning the walls.

Eidolon stood in Geir's former throne, wolf pelts and skulls replaced with a banner of the III hanging behind him, with the Flawless Host sigil draped onto the throne itself. Flanking him were two chainglaive-armed Terminators. Dozens of slaves were scrubbing down the chamber, as if preparing it for some important event.

The Lord Commander Primus watched as I was ushered into his audience chamber, his gaze unblinking. Brought before the throne, we were deposited unceremoniously. Our bodies could barely move from the kneeling position forced upon us.

Eidolon clapped. "A Blood Angel and a Space Wolf, my, my. Look how far you've fallen."

"Why are we still alive?" I was able to ask, the words forced out.

The once most favoured son of Fulgrim leaned backwards in his throne and interlocked his armoured fingers. "I kept you alive to be Daius' playthings. You have lasted longer than I expected, but now you can be trophies of my victory here. And," he pursed his lips, "you may witness the birth of my ascendance."

"Why come here?" growled an Untamed.

"Conveniently placed backwater," was Eidolon's only response.

Before more questions could be asked, we were moved to the side; our mouths gagged and forced to wait. What for quickly revealed itself. The slaves were dismissed and soon after the main entry doors opened, revealing many notorious Space Marines whose rise to infamy began during the Heresy and continued into the Eye of Terror.

Lucius the Perfect Bladesman, leader of the Warhost; Hellespon, commander of the Phoenix's Scions; Grythan Thorn, warlord of the Amethyst Brotherhood; and more entered the throne room. All were escorted by two of their own guards, but the Flawless Host watched their guests closely. Most were Sons of Fulgrim, but some were clearly from other Legions and Chapters. I saw daemons, some of whom led their own warbands, or others that trailed in the shadows of the powerful gathered on Baddakûr, feasting off their auras. Many of the III commanders, I noticed, had held high rank when the Legion still fought for the Emperor, the 'old blood,' if you will.

There were dozens of warbands represented, a great gathering, called together by Eidolon's lust for power.

"Welcome, brothers, cousins, to Baddakûr," Eidolon greeted warmly.

"Why have you called us here?" asked Thorn, once Fulgrim's Equerry.

The Lord Commander Primus got straight to the point. "You are here because of Sakaeron."

The atmosphere in the chamber changed, becoming heavier, more hostile. Eidolon waited for the tension to build, and spoke at its climax, like a director guiding an orchestra.

"You all know what he did at Karaashi Station some years ago, using the neutral ground there as an ambush site. In one swift motion of betrayal he united nearly half the Legion under him, and his armies have only grown in the years since. That upstart arrogantly calls himself the Heir of Fulgrim and Second War Commander… and more are flocking to him every day. My Flawless Host and our allies have slowed him, raiding supply lines, conquering worlds, ambushing taskforces and more, but it is not enough, not on our own." It seemed to pain Eidolon to admit that, which improved my mood somewhat.

I had of course heard of this Sakaeron who had returned centuries after earning his most well-known moniker over Chemos, This Astartes amazingly had been a lowly sergeant when Fulgrim purged his sons' ranks during the Feast of Rebirth but quickly rose to the prestigious position of lord commander after only a brief stint of a few years as captain. I knew of him during the Heresy; being one of primary commanders of traitor forces during the successful Invasion of Deliverance made him a figure of notoriety to the Angel. And my warband had heard of what occurred at the Karaashi Station, the entire Eye had. The Third Legion's Succession War had entered a new, more final stage that day. No longer was it warband versus warband, endless petty fighting for a power ever out of their grasp. Sakaeron's arrival changed all that.

Where once there were many contenders for Legion Master, only two now stood as candidates: Eidolon and Sakaeron, two very different Space Marines. One hailed from an exalted blue-blooded family on Chemos, the other from lowborn origins. One had been Fulgrim's right hand for over a century, the other a favoured son who gained prominence during the rebellion.

"You want us to join you to fight him, is that right?" sneered Lucius. "Why should I join you, and not him?" A valid question, I thought.

Eidolon glared at his fellow lord commander for a moment before turning his attention to the others.

"To my brothers, Sakaeron is bastardising our heritage, incorporating other bloodlines into the Legion, allowing them to don the purple and gold that is our right and ours alone. To my cousins, Sakaeron's ambitions will wither and die, his ambitions too steep to see fulfilled. You seek glory and power, and he will give you only death. All of you have in one way or another antagonised Sakaeron or hate him, which is why I called you here. Combining our forces will stop Sakaeron's progression across the Great Storm, and allow us to launch a killing blow against the Heir Pretender."

" **A strike where?"** growled Gerox, an Iron Hand warlord who shared his body with a daemon. His warband, the Corroded Corps, numbered over four hundred and fielded many siege engines and other powerful weapons of war, many bonded with Neverborn.

"Nallavonn, Sakaeron's hidden world."

The others seemed surprised at this. Ever since revealing himself at Karaashi, whsipers of a secret world spread among the Great Storm. Rumours of it being free from much of the warp's taint allowed the mortals that dwelled there to be genetically stable, allowing Sakaeron to harvest their youth for Astartes and soldiers. One of the few places in the Eye where genetic corruption was not rampant, permitting Sakaeron's Sons of Fulgrim to grow at a consistent pace.

If Eidolon had truly found it, then no matter how large Sakaeron's domain was or how many pledged their services to him, he would be crippled by an attack on his new homeworld.

"How did you find it?" hissed Volupus of the Flickering Blades.

"That is for me to know, and you to trust in its source."

Volupus grimaced at the tone, but nodded.

"Where is Sakaeron? Wherever he is, the _Pride_ will not be far. If he is at Nallavonn, then our assault will be too risky," spoke Jihar the Lacerator.

"My spies report he is in the Sadar Drift with the lion's share of his forces. We will strike Nallavonn first, taking away the Deceiver's recruits and base, and his empire will be vulnerable."

"With Nallavonn gone, Sakaeron's territory will be ripe for the taking," muttered Lucius. "Fitting payback for that bastard."

"Still carry a grudge, Lucius?" asked Solathen of the Nasicae.

The scarred Perfect Bladesman grunted affirmation, raising his left hand. "I have a spot on my palm earmarked for him."

"What about Sakaeron? He will not sit idly by while his world is attacked."

"With Nallavonn devastated and his powerbase destroyed, we will hunt him down and end him." Eidolon stood. "Are we all in agreement? Can I count on you?"

The assembled warlords confirmed their agreement, pledging to gather their forces and rendezvous with the Flawless Host in one month's time. It seemed Sakaeron's bid for power had finally caught up to him.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Next chapter will be the last of this arc, and then the Iron Hands Index.


	31. TLW - Chapter Three

**The Long War**

 **Chapter Three**

A month later, an armada had formed on the edge of Sakaeron's empire within the Eye. Nearly forty warbands of the Sons of Fulgrim had come together, additionally so too had warbands from all Eight Legions. Though united by a purpose to end the threat the self-proclaimed Heir of Fulgrim represented, the warbands did not intermingle. It was clear where one's forces began and ended. Their fragile unity lasted only as long as Sakaeron remained. Once he died, the alliance Eidolon had conjured together would fracture at the seams, each warlord betraying the other. Such was life in the Eye, where brotherhood mattered so little to so many. At the armada's head was Eidolon's _Wage of Sin_. The battle-barge led hundreds of ships, including my _Victus_ , towards Nallavonn, entering the true warp to settle a centuries old dispute.

I could see all of this from the _Sin_ 's bridge, where myself and the Untamed jarl Vidar were chained to the floor. Our month since Baddakûr had not been pleasant. Daius had used other techniques, other strategies, to make us break. Incorporeal burrowing worms that made our blood boil, pushing each of us towards reaching the point of no return with our genetic flaws. He wanted us to beg for death but we resisted. More and more of our brothers had been killed before us, yet still we resisted.

The journey was quick, relatively; lasting only days and when the armada emerged from the Immaterium into the Nallavonn System they found a world of unparalleled beauty. Stunning azure oceans, white-topped mountains and fields of green were seen from orbit. Tendrils of pure warp energy reached towards the planet but skirted away from breaching the atmosphere.

"Impossible," I heard Eidolon mutter. Eidolon's second, Consul Azael Konenos, looked shocked. Daius rubbed his bald head in contemplation. "Is this a fluke or a blessing?" Eidolon whispered, so low that he thought no one could hear. The bridge crew looked up, enamoured by a world seemingly free from the pervasive taint that ruled the Eye. Officer-overseers used corded whips to redirect them back to their tasks, but the atmosphere remained tense.

"My lord," called Konenos. No response from the Master of the Flawless Host. Konenos stepped closer, reaching out grabbing Eidolon's arm. "Lord? Your orders?"

Eidolon snapped out of it, refocusing on the primary view-screen and the information presented there. The defence fleet around Nallavonn was impressive: four battle-barges, three carriers, twenty cruisers of all types, and nearly a hundred escorts. Judging by Daius' concerned look, it was more powerful than they had assumed, but Eidolon's alliance still outnumbered their enemy some three-to-one. Void stations dotted throughout the planet's high orbit, weapon platforms that would pose a serious threat to any passing warship and would need to be dealt with via boarding parties.

"Deploy the armada as per Beta-Six configuration." The armada began to lethargically alter its course, warbands taking their pre-determined positions. Beta-Six called for an inverted wedge formation, with the Flawless Host, the Warhost, and the Corroded Corps taking the centre rear and would deal the hammer blow since they fielded the most warships. The wedge's flanks would be made up of the smaller warbands to act as cannon fodder and shield to protect the more numerous and more powerful warbands in the centre. The benefit for being on the flank, however, was a chance to capture more vessels from the Nallavonn defenders. Eidolon knew that the minor warlords were yearning for more ships and slaves, and he exploited that greed well enough. Many of the flank warbands would die, but those that hypothetically survived would come out stronger once the battle was won.

"My lord, incoming vox and vid from the defence fleet," called out the vox-officer, fused to his chair with only his neck and arms able to move freely.

"Put it through," Eidolon replied, glaring at the view-screen.

The figure that blinked onto the screen was clad in the purple and gold of the Sons of Fulgrim, but with a void-black left shoulder pad and the winged helm of the Lion's get. Eidolon knew who he was, as did I.

"Astelan," Eidolon spat.

The Vengeful Knight tipped his head in acknowledgement but did not respond.

"Your master left you to defend his world? He's more of a fool than I thought. Last world you led the defence for ended up as broken rock and cosmic dust."

"My brother is no fool, Eidolon. He left me here for a reason. One of the Tyberkenna must always stay to protect Nallavonn."

"Brother?" Eidolon asked incredulous. "Sakaeron has the gall to add other bloodlines to the Third Legion and call them brother. My father would never allow this."

"Your father is dead. Fulgrim did many great things but he had his flaws. Sakaeron knows this and seeks to avoid them. It might bear your primarch's name, but the Third Legion has been destined for Sakaeron ever since the failed Siege. Only he can lead us from the Eye and seek vengeance on the Imperium."

Eidolon barked laughter at that, though it sounded hollow and forced to my ears. "I'm coming to kill you, Astelan, and take my father's corpse away from your foolish _brother_." Eidolon cut the link and stormed to his command throne. He looked at Daius and Konenos. "Let's get this over with. Begin the attack."

* * *

What would soon be called Eidolon's Gambit began with torpedo-laden cruisers on the wedge's flanks unleashing their deadly munitions against the outlying picket forces that defended Nallavonn. Four frigates were destroyed, the souls of their mortal crews consumed by ravenous daemons who swarmed through the ships' corridors, devouring any who lingered in the dead ships. Three more would be boarded by two different warbands to be claimed as prizes.

The next to die was Thorn's _Luminescent_. First built in the early years of the Great Crusade, the grand cruiser had fought for the Emperor decades before it fought for the Phoenician, partaking in actions such as the Romarr Liberation and the Kaspien Gap Campaign. When the primarch had been found, it had served admirably for years under him. Fulgrim gifted the _Luminescent_ to his Equerry Grythan Thorn, who commanded it with skill and finesse. Over Bellanor, when the Dropsite Massacre first begun, the _Luminescent_ had the honour to be the second ship to fire upon the loyalists, shortly following his Legion's flagship. Since the Scouring, the grand cruiser had been the command ship of the Amethyst Brotherhood. It remained so for centuries until a barrage of torpedoes fired from the battleship _Hammer of Apillia_ , broke through the void-shielding, impacting a relatively weakened aft section of the ship that buckled the adamantium and plasteel, detonating ammunition reserves that led to a chain reaction that destabilised the plasma reactor. Within four minutes, the warship exploded, taking the lives of nearly nine thousand mortal crew and fifty-four Sons of Fulgrim of the Amethyst Brotherhood.

Many more followed them into death, on both sides.

The Neverborn would eat well that day.

I watched Eidolon command his ships, but I quickly realised that the warbands were fighting their own battles in their own way. Their fleet-level coordination broke down the instant battle began. I shook my head. It was pitiful how far we had fallen. Gone were the brotherhood, coordination, and flawless execution that shone during the Great Crusade and sorely tested during the Heresy. Even the dismantling of the Legions into Chapters following Guilliman's Codex did little to affect this. But in the Great Storm, blood and betrayal was the currency of all.

As I craned my neck to get a better view of the view-screen I noticed something. The Sons of Fulgrim under Astelan were outnumbered but were holding their own. Squadrons covered one another's approach vectors, the escorts shielding the capital ships while they fired their payloads. Heavily damaged ships withdrew to the rear, their void-shield generators overloaded, fire and coolant leaking into the coldness of space. On occasion they were sacrificed, but in doing so they allowed more enemy ships to be damaged or destroyed. Despite starting the battle with a three-to-one differential, it was now rapidly nearing two-to-one. Either this was standard practise for the forces of Sakaeron, or Astelan was a far better commander than Eidolon gave him credit for.

But as I watched, I saw that no matter how skilled the Vengeful Knight was, he was being overwhelmed by numbers alone. Eidolon was becoming more and more frustrated as losses mounted, and sharing a glance with Vidar made it clear why. No matter if Nallavonn burned and half of Astelan's ships were captured, Eidolon would be unable to hunt down Sakaeron as he boasted. His fleet would be too bloodied to do so. It would likely take years for him to recover from this battle, even in victory.

"Lord-" began Konenos.

"I see it."

The wedge's flanks had begun to intermingle with the outlying squadrons of Astelan's fleet, short-range weaponry being fired. No longer firing from a distance of hundreds of thousands of kilometres, they now were in the hundreds of kilometres, close range for void warfare. Cannon, las-turret, and missiles soared through the void, impacting shields and thick armour, attempting to burrow into the enemy ship's innards. Boarding parties from both sides flew by one another. Soon reports of ship defence and assault flooded the _Sin_ 's bridge. Konenos took over for this, directing that cruisers and above were to be boarded, while frigates and destroyers were to be crippled or destroyed.

Soon enough, though in reality it was another half-hour, the wedge's centre came under fire and returned in kind. In the time it took the _Wage of Sin_ to break through the outer defence squadrons, Astelan's battle-barge the _Indomitable_ left its secure position at the fleet's centre to oppose the _Sin_. The fleets were too engaged to break off; the only way this battle would end would be in either victory or death. After another half-hour of battle, it was obvious Eidolon would win but be a victor over bones and ash.

That made the arrival of a massive armada not one hundred thousand kilometres away all the more potent in it revelation.

Ah, you are confused, Inquisitors. You are wondering on how a fleet could exit the warp so close to the gravity well of a planet. First, you must understand that in the Eye we do not have true Mandeville points. Mandeville points, as you well know, allow a relatively smooth entry into the Empyrean's turbulent currents. Anything from single ships to battlefleets can enter a Mandeville point and emerge more oft than not in the same formation and at the same time, thus making it standard practice to enter and exit a star system via these. This does not mean one has to enter the warp at these pre-destined points, far from it. You could enter it anywhere in the system, but it is more dangerous and fleet-coordination and communication is typically lost. The closer one is to a gravity well, the riskier it becomes.

Well in the Eye, the Immaterium floods real-space. It is a warp storm, after all. While there is a true warp we use to travel, the Empyrean's influence over the Eye is so great that a ship can emerge with a good chance at survival close to a planet that outside the Eye would have been suicidal. So while you scratch your heads at the oddity of an armada arriving so close to a planet's gravity well, you would do well to remember that many things once thought impossible are common occurrences within the Eye.

Thus, when the fleet of several hundred ships emerged from the warp, Eidolon was not surprised that it happened, but rather that it was the _Pride of Chemos_ that led it and the number that followed it into Eyespace.

"Sakaeron," he spat.

The War Commander was clearly not in the Sadar Drift, rather he was here leading the bulk of forces. I came to the realisation that this was all planned at the same moment Eidolon did.

"That bastard," he hissed through clenched teeth. "The fighting in the Sadar Drift, the location of his homeworld, all of it was planned." He brought his fists together and slammed them down upon a bridge crewman who had veered too close. The mortal was squashed beneath a warlord's fury, a bloody pulp all that remained. The second larger fleet began to fire upon the rear picket force left by Eidolon. The dozen escort warships lasted less than ten minutes before they were crippled, boarding torpedoes and assault rams already being sent out to capture them.

"Lord, we should retreat," urged Konenos. Daius was nodded vigorously at this, his back turned to Vidar and myself. We both looked at each other and subtly nodded. The drugs that had swarmed our bloodstream had thinned out long ago, Daius too distracted with the battle to inject us with more. Our manacles were tight, the blood that coated our wrists was dry, but the fresh wounds of torture remained. We intentionally cut ourselves upon the manacles edges, blood flowing down our hands. As the three commanders of the Flawless Host argued amongst themselves, their bodyguards either looking despairingly at the view-screen or adjoining hololiths, or waiting for orders, Vidar and I slowly but surely wrestled free of our restraints. Luckily our ankles were not shackled down, only our wrists to the floor.

Just as we were near loosening our grip, a tear opened in the bridge's centre. I saw the blackness within, could feel the utter cold that emitted from it and could hear the whispers of the creatures that dwelt within that deep abyss. Those that came out were not daemons, but Space Marines. Dozens emerged from the tear, shooting and stabbing at the Flawless Host Astartes who ran to meet them. There were three warriors of note. One had the Prosperine crests on his helm and void-black left shoulder pad, while another carried his sword with a predator's grace and cut down two Flawless Host Astartes with a single motion. I saw all this with a glance but it was the figure that first emerged from the tear that caught my attention.

Of average height and build, the legionnaire did not look like much. But under closer inspection, I noted his highly detailed armour, the Octed on the right shoulder, the Chemosian Phoenix on his chestplate, and the blade-like protrusions from his helm's brow. There was far more, signalling that this wasn't a mere legionnaire or even an officer. This was Tyberius Sakaeron, the Heir of Fulgrim and Second War Commander. The sword he carried I quickly recognised as _Fireblade_ , its power field active and glowing an inferno orange as if fresh from the forge.

"Sakaeron!" Eidolon yelled, swinging his Thunder Hammer into an offensive stance. "How?"

Sakaeron looked at Eidolon and raised _Fireblade_. His voice came from the vox-grille, collected and assured of his power, "Your arrogance will be your downfall."

Before either could make the first move, a loud thunderclap echoed through the bridge. Lucius and thirty more Astartes stood on the bridge, formed in a circle of storm shield-carrying Space Marines.

"Lucius," Eidolon sounded relieved, "kill him. Earn that kill mark," the Lord Commander Primus said, gesturing towards Sakaeron.

The Perfect Bladesman moved towards Sakaeron, sword drawn. As he approached the War Commander, he did not attack but rather knelt, sword offered as in tribute.

"Lord Heir, I am yours."

"As you have always been, brother," Sakaeron said, motioning for Lucius to rise. "Now," the Heir focused on Eidolon once more, "disarm him."

Lucius sprung forward, Eidolon's two nearest bodyguards cut down before they could react, their Terminator armour little protection from arguably the premier swordsman in the III. Eidolon raised his Thunder Hammer and the two began their bout. Vidar and I had slipped from our chains and approached Daius and Konenos from behind, their attention rapt with the duel. The other Flawless Host on the bridge were quickly killed by Sakaeron's and Lucius' men.

Due to our positioning, we agreed via Legion hand-talk who to target. Vidar grabbed Konenos from behind, his sharp canines biting deep into the pale flesh. Black-red blood spurted out in a violent arc. Daius turned around, hand going for a dagger on his hip when my hands clasped around his throat. The sanguine veil was falling, my bloodlust and anger rising.

"Like I told you," I gritted, spittle flying at Daius' strained face, "I swore by the gods that I would kill you." I applied more and more pressure. "Now I will." With a squeeze and a twist, Daius' neck snapped. I dropped the Apothecary, looking at Vidar who stood over a dead Konenos. For a moment I thought we would fight each other, settling our battle here and now. Instead, the Untamed nodded at me and held out his hand. I clasped his forearm in a warriors' grip, nodding back.

We both looked towards the duel, or rather the aftermath of it. Lucius was sheathing his sword and stepping backwards. Sakaeron approached and stood over Eidolon who was bleeding out on the floor, his arms and legs severed from his body.

"Coward!" yelled Eidolon, shaking with rage and, perhaps, fear, "You should have fought me yourself."

"And why would I do such a thing?" I heard the Heir say.

"For honour, for glory," sputtered Eidolon, blood beginning to bubble from his mouth, "To prove yourself."

Sakaeron began to shake too, but it was contained laughter. "For honour? Honour to you is meaningless, cur. Besides, honour died centuries ago. Now only vengeance remains. Killing you does not bring me or mine glory. All it brings us is conclusion. Why prove myself to you, when the proof of my power is all around you. I stand above you, my fleet taking over yours even as we speak, and over a world largely untouched by the pervasive taint that surrounds us. I am ascendant in the eyes of the Four. They wish to tempt me to their service, but they will fail. I am my own man. They hate and love me for my defiance. Our father was great, but in the end he had become nothing more than a vessel of the Ruinous Powers. A puppet, pulled at the strings by those we call gods."

Sakaeron straightened himself.

"You are too short-sighted, brother. I look to the future. Not just centuries but millennia. You have impeded my efforts for too long, Eidolon. Your highest aspiration was to be a would-be king in the Eye. Mine," Sakaeron said, voice lowering in thought and ambition, "is to be emperor of the Imperium. To take the throne from the False Emperor, cast off His corpse, and sit upon what should have been our father's. Fulgrim is dead, but his vision lives on through me," Sakaeron patted his chestplate. "Me, and me alone. I am his Heir, and you… you were nothing but disappointment towards the end."

Sakaeron raised _Fireblade_ and it fell.

* * *

Days had passed since Eidolon's death. The alliance, which had been strained when it attacked Nallavonn, had fallen apart completely when the _Pride of Chemos_ arrived at the head of reinforcements for the defenders. Trapped between Astelan and Sakaeron, the alliance's warbands either surrendered or were destroyed. Very few escaped. For those that surrendered, many would join the Third Legion, either as those at long last returning to the Legion proper or as Phertalien. Nonetheless, they were all Sons of Fulgrim, harbingers and warriors of the Phoenician's philosophy carried on via his Heir.

I stood in the antechamber of the Phoenician's Court, aboard the _Pride of Chemos_ , waiting to be called. There were three of us waiting there: Lucius, Vidar and myself. Six Phoenix Guards guarded the doors and corridor but might as well not have been there due to their statuesque stances. We waited to be called.

Vidar and I had come to an understanding. My grudge had been with Geir, not with him. Both of us surviving Daius' experimentation helped bond us. Out of our warriors, sixteen Flesh Tearers and eleven of the Untamed survived; Wilscer being one of them.

I shrugged in my new Mk IV armour, coloured in III livery, barring the left shoulder pad which was void-black, as was Vidar's. My Terminator plate had been found by a search party on a heavy cruiser, worn by a Flawless Host champion who had been killed by a melta gun. The armour was ruined, but it could have been repaired, parts cannibalised from other suits. I decided not to do so, instead letting a Techmarine take it to break it down for spare parts. I was gifted the armour I now wore by Sakaeron himself yesterday. The _Victus_ had been returned to me as well, though it suffered greatly during the void battle. Already the Heir's Dark Mechanicum swarmed over it, repairing and modifying it. My Flesh Tearers would act as my bodyguard, but I was receiving two companies worth of legionnaires, all for me to command.

Vidar kept his old Space Wolf armour, only the colours were changed. The sorcerer who opened the tear to the bridge was indeed a Prosperine, and the former Thousand Son almost killed Vidar out of spite but was stopped by Sakaeron.

I moved to Lucius. Questions had been pestering my mind for days. "Was it all part of a plan? The feigned hate and wish to kill him?"

Lucius smirked. "Oh, I do want to kill Sakaeron but I won't; at least, not yet. The only thing I hate more than him is the Imperium. Sakaeron and I have our… misunderstandings, but we share the same ideas for the future: vengeance. Fulgrim should be sitting on the Golden Throne, but my father is dead. Sakaeron is a better option than anyone else, and damn better than Eidolon ever could be."

"How long have you two been planning this?"

"Decades. I wasn't at Karaashi for a reason. The battles fought between my Astartes and Sakaeron's were real, they had to be. Only the Tyberkenna and I knew of the plan. The thing about Sakaeron is his mind," Lucius tapped his scarred head, "always thinking several steps ahead. He knew when he announced himself at Karaashi that there would be those who would still oppose him and would form an alliance. I would appear, join this alliance and when the moment was right, reveal my loyalties. When the _Pride_ arrived, my Warhost captured dozens of vessels in the centre of the alliance's fleet."

Lucius looked at me. "In single combat I am better than anyone else in the Legion, even Telemachon. This is not a boast, but fact. Astelan is arguably our premiere void strategist, Kaesoron an excellent field commander, and Iskandar one of our more powerful sorcerers, if not the most powerful. They surpass Sakaeron in their own ways but only he has the charisma, the vision and ruthlessness to unite us all together. What was once broken has been remade, renewed like a phoenix from the ashes," Lucius snorted at that. The words sounded like a quote. "Are you done asking me questions?"

"I am," I stepped away, taking my spot near Vidar. The Untamed looked at me, lupine grin on his face.

"Sakaeron sounds like an alpha wolf, eh?"

"He does." I turn to him. "I wouldn't mention wolves around Khayon. He might just let loose his daemons on us." Vidar barked laughter at that.

The doors to the Court opened moments later, and the three of us walked in on cue. The room was not full, for it could hold hundreds without issue, but was only occupied by sixteen individuals, fifteen of whom were Astartes, ten being Phoenix Guards. The remaining six were the inner elite of the Third Legion. One sat on a throne of white-veined obsidian, the other five flanking him.

On the seated figure's left was Merir Astelan, the Vengeful Knight, Force Commander of the Phertalien, Second of the Tyberkenna, and Hand of Sakaeron. Beside him was Telemachon Lyras, Captain of the Phoenix Guard, Fourth of the Tyberkenna, and Shield of Sakaeron.

To the right of the throne stood Julius Kaesoron, Lord Captain-Commander of the Third Legion, First of the Tyberkenna, and Voice of Sakaeron. Beside him was Iskandor Khayon, First Sorcerer of the Sons of Fulgrim, Third of the Tyberkenna, and Eye of Sakaeron. The sole mortal was stocky like a pit-fighter, clad all in black, with a skull-like mask covering his face. I did not know his name at the time, only his title: Kheldall, Master of the Oprechnyna, Lord of Whispers and Secrets, Fifth of the Tyberkenna.

In the throne, which had once seated a primarch but had since been moulded to fit a transhuman physique, sat Sakaeron. Tyberius Sakaeron, Heir of Fulgrim, Master of the Third Legion, and War Commander of Chaos, beckoned us forward.

We approached, us three.

"Cousins, brother," began Sakaeron. "You have shown your loyalty to me, and have decided to induct you three into the Tyberkenna, to act as my confidants, my advisors and my instruments in the wars we fight. Vidar of the Untamed, step forward."

I saw Khayon's hand grip tighten around the shaft of his battle-axe, _Saern_ , but that was the only reaction. Vidar stood before the War Commander's throne.

"Vidar, son of Russ, once of the Space Wolves Chapter, jarl of the Untamed, you stand here seeking what?"

"Vengeance."

"Against whom?"

"Against the Imperium. Against our enemies."

Sakaeron watched him closely, searching for any lie.

"I believe you." He rose from the throne, walking down the marble steps and embraced Vidar. "Welcome, Vidar, Jarl of the Untamed, Sixth of the Tyberkenna, my Huntsman."

He repeated the questions with Lucius, and embraced him. "Welcome, Lucius, the Perfect Bladesman, Lord of the Warhost, Seventh of the Tyberkenna, my Sword."

The same questions were given to me. I embraced him, and that day he went from cousin to brother. All of us in that room would gather more titles, more monikers in the years to come, and our brotherhood would grow but at that moment it was just us nine; our leader and his eight lords of war.

"Welcome, Nassir Amit, the Flesh Tearer, Eighth of the Tyberkenna, my Executioner."

I stepped backwards to stand next to Vidar and Lucius.

Sakaeron sat back upon his throne.

"Brothers, the Succession War is over. I have won. The few Third Legion warbands that have not submitted to my will are inconsequential to the future. Now, the Sons of Fulgrim must focus on the Legion Wars. It is time we joined on an equal footing, with all our efforts and resources behind common cause. No longer will the Third Legion be seen as vulnerable; no longer will we be seen as _weak_. The Sons of Fulgrim will go on the offensive, and soon the entire Eye will know we have returned to our former glory. To do so, we will eliminate threats to our ascendance. This is but the next step on the path towards vengeance against the Imperium."

Sakaeron snapped his fingers and a hololithic projector activated, displaying a legionnaire with Prosperine helm crests similar to Khayon's but carrying a staff with an adamantium-encased skull atop of it. We gathered around the projection, looking at the figure. I noticed that there were no ocular lenses.

"This is Sekhet the Eyeless, Lord of the Blind Cabal." Sakaeron interlocked his fingers. "He is our first target."

* * *

 **Fortress of the Inquisition, Terra, 999.M41**

Thus ends the opening chapter of my long tale. Do not worry, there will be more, many more. I sometimes forget about mortal weaknesses. I see the fatigue in your eyes, the slump of your shoulders. Rest, Inquisitors, rest, you'll need it. I have been speaking for days, you have much to study. Ponder my words, compare them to your intelligence data-bases, do what you must, but do return for I have only just begun.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thus concludes the first arc of the Long War sub-series. Let me know what you thought of it via review or PM, what you liked/didn't like, etc. Work has begun on the Iron Hands Index and that will be my sole focus until it is completed. Enjoy!


	32. Iron Hands

**Iron Hands – Creators of the Forbidden**

 _The Emperor is a fool. He is a powerful being without doubt, but a fool all the same. My father would rather see our species stagnate under the hollow notions of safety and security, seemingly ignoring the bitter truth that only the strong survive while the weak perish. The Imperium needs to be continuously tempered, thrust into the fires of war to ensure the sturdiness of Mankind. A species without struggle is one doomed to destruction. The Eldar are a perfect example of what laxity leads to. Without adversity, humanity will wither and die under continuous assault from never ending external and internal threats, our foundation fragile by false assuredness._

 _Forbidding avenues of technology and thought, locking away designs and creations that would ensure Mankind's dominance for all time is a mistake. Many point to the Dark Age of Technology as proof that the Emperor's decrees are wise, but they forget that primarchs and Astartes did not yet exist. Only we can herd the frail masses of the Imperium towards its manifest destiny. Not the politicians who sit on the Council of Terra, not the bureaucrats of the Administratum, or the generals and admirals of the Imperial Army. And it seems not even the Emperor anymore. He has lost sight of what struggle is. And that is unforgivable._

Excerpt from the _Liber Ferrum_.

 **Origins-**

The worlds the primarchs landed on were not only where they grew to adulthood, they also shaped who they were as an individual. Macragge made Guilliman a premiere administrator and logistician; Fenris shaped Russ to be a savage yet noble killer; Nocturne infused Vulkan with the belief humanity was inherently good and only needed to be guided to the better path. Not only did the worlds change the primarchs, the primarchs without a doubt changed their homeworlds. Barbarus went from being ruled by xenos overlords to be a world that tasted freedom for the first time in millennia due to Mortarion; Chemos went from a world on the verge of desolation to a garden world under Fulgrim; and Olympia went from a fractured mess of warring city-states to a planet united under the harsh, yet wise and beneficial rule of Perturabo.

Each and every primarch changed their homeworld in significant ways, doing what they saw fit to better it. Some were more humanitarian, others more effective, but none can deny the effect the Tenth Primarch had on his world. Medusa, located on the desolate edge of the Segmentum Obscurus and dangerously near the Eye of Terror, has suffered greatly in its history. Once it had been the centre of an empire that spanned hundreds of star systems, its government a possible offshoot of the Adeptus Mechanicus. The Medusans produced many powerful and wondrous creations, their most notable being the colossal planet-encircling Telstarax, which shares many similarities with the Martian Ring of Iron.

It is unknown what caused the collapse of this technological juggernaut, but whatever it was moved swiftly and left dozens of worlds burned to a cinder, taking place centuries before Old Night. Rich jungles became contaminated deserts, oceans teeming with life became irradiated sludge, and where once there were trillions, less than one percent survived. Medusa itself, the jewel of this union, was devastated. The sky became perpetually dark and polluted, planetary geology became greatly unstable, mountain ranges and seas formed and destroyed on a regular basis. The once-united people became shattered into competing clans that wandered their damaged world in the search of ever-shifting stable ground, scrounging resources in deadly wars waged against their rivals.

It was to this unforgiving environment that the Tenth Primarch arrived to. His life-pod broke through the thick cloud coverage, experiencing heavy turbulence that overrode the machine-spirit's attempts at a safe landing on the plains, and instead was forcibly thrown off course to impact with the greatest planetary landmark: the Ice Pinnacle of Karaashi.

 _Ryrged traversed the edges of the Land of Shadows. His mate had called him foolish, but he had to travel there, searching for any scrap of divine archeotech that could be traded when the next clan roamed by. Ryrged was a wanderer, one of those brave idiotic fools who did not settle in the few stable areas that dotted the landscape, nor ventured with a clan and their Land Behemoth. He, his mate and their three sons navigated the lands, finding what they could scavenge, hoping it held power or secrets that would equal food and clean water rations._

 _The family had settled a league away in a cave, warded with runes of protection and a device that drove off the wraiths that haunted the land. He had risen early from slumber, eager to see what the hills would reveal. Not far away, Karaashi dominated the landscape. A mountain covered in dirtied ice and razor-sharp rocks. Not even he would attempt to climb it. The bones discarded at the base of the mountain were more than enough to make him wary of approaching too closely. Some of those skeletal remains had bite marks where predators had gnawed upon them for sustenance._

 _He was at the peak of a small hill, looking to where he would go next, when a loud, screeching roar that sounded metallic reverberated through the air. It seemed to come from all around, echoing off ravines and hills, but its source quickly revealed itself. A large silver creature climbed out of Karaashi's flank, roaring once more before taking off down the mountainside, rocks and blackened snow tumbling but it kept a sure foot._

 _The creature revealed itself to be the legendary wyrm Asirnoth, the first and greatest of its kind, its tale told to frighten children. It thundered down the mountain, reaching the base within minutes. It saw him, and Ryrged wept in terror, but it did not approach. Those malevolent green eyes glanced at him for only a moment before looking back toward the mountain as if scared before scuttling away._

 _Ryrged fell to the ground, clasped arms around himself and started shaking, shocked at still being alive. He sat there for hours, mind almost broken by the encounter, when two bare feet approached him. Ryrged looked up and saw a young man. Coal black hair covered the stranger's head and eyes of silver-grey stared at him. The man was nude, displaying a perfect physique, but seemed unaffected or bothered by the intense cold. He looked down at Ryrged, and the wanderer knew that if the stranger wanted to he could kill Ryrged with little to no effort. To dissuade that, Ryrged gave the stranger his cloak, mag-bow and one of his pistols. It seemed to satisfy him._

" _Where did it go?" The man spoke slowly, haltingly, as if he had just learned the words and was not quite sure of their meaning yet. Ryrged pointed in the direction Asirnoth had run off to. The stranger, now armed and clothed, moved off without pause or goodbye._

 _Ryrged just watched, amazed and terrified at what he witnessed. He was still staring off in the direction the wyrm and its hunter had gone when the mist-wraiths arrived and tore into him._

The primarch's violent impact with Karaashi's peak deposited his life-pod into a cavern hidden in the Ice Pinnacle. There, the primarch unknowingly awoke an ancient beast, which clawed its way to freedom from its once secure prison. The primarch knew that such a creature could not be allowed to rampage freely and took off after it, gathering weapons and supplies along the way, swearing he would see to its destruction. The significance of the Tenth's arrival was felt by the planet itself. Violent earthquakes, raging thunderstorms, and the pained cries of clan shamans and nomadic witches heralded the age.

After the primarch's arrival, rumours of a silver-grey eyed giant soon spread across the populace. The natives quickly dubbed this giant the Gorgon, a figure from Medusa's mythology, out of respect due to his heroic deeds whilst combating the horrors that plagued the land, and saw him as a divine figure due to his known affinity with technology and metalwork. The next several years were recorded in the _Canticle of the Travels_ , written by authors unknown. These tales record in exacting detail what the Tenth Primarch did during his hunt for Asirnoth: eradicating cannibal tribes, besting a storm giant in single combat, extermination of several psy-siren covens, subjugation of a kingdom of abhuman monstrosities, and far more. The greatest, however, was the final confrontation between the primarch and Asirnoth.

After years of restless hunting, the Gorgon cornered it near a lake of lava. The now fully grown primarch was far stronger than he had been when the silver wyrm had been awoken. The monster had slaughtered whole villages and wiped out entire clans since its accidentally bequeathed freedom, and the primarch was intent on ending it. The Gorgon attacked with all the fury that raged within him, but his attacks did little harm. Nevertheless, he was relentless. Knowing he couldn't kill it with the weapons he carried, the primarch tackled Asirnoth into the nearby lava lake, holding it under with his bare hands. Despite searing pain, the primarch did not relent until he felt the beast cease its struggle and its metal skin melt. The primarch let the metallic carcass go, allowing it to fall further into Medusa's magma veins.

The Gorgon withdrew his hands from the lava, expecting only smouldering nubs but was surprised to find them intact, covered with the same strange metal that had once been Asirnoth's skin. The silver material now coated up to the primarch's elbows and he quickly realised that it could never be removed.

Hunt now successfully concluded the Gorgon approached one of the few permanent settlements on the world, and it was these people who gave the primarch his name. The townsmen named him Ferrus Manus, meaning 'hands of iron' in a very old dialect no longer spoken but taken from ancient scrolls. When the Imperium arrived, it was discovered to have been standard High Gothic.

As thanks for defeating Asirnoth, the town made Manus their leader, and for the first time in his life he did not shy away from other humans but interacted with them fully, seeing a resolve in the Medusan people that endeared him to them. Manus became impressed with his new subjects, approving of their hardiness and skill at not only surviving all Medusa could conjure up but thriving amidst such hostility and danger.

The town quickly grew into a city under Manus' patronage. Renamed Asfaleia the White City, it acted as a beacon of security and prosperity that drew hundreds of thousands. For the first time since the fall of their ancient empire, a proper city now stood on the sullied soil of Medusa. Walls were built to defend against the dangers that assailed them, a City Guard recruited and trained by Manus, and an elected body ruled the city in the primarch's name. Technological development was encouraged so as to better defend themselves rather than just scavenging from ruins as the Medusans had been doing for millennia. For a time, the Gorgon was content with this, but after only a couple of years Manus wanted to continue wandering his homeworld and defeat the many dangers that still lurked in its shadows. He departed Asfaleia with much fanfare, crowds cheering their protector and de facto king.

Manus would travel the width and breadth of the planet for years, defeating vicious beasts, corrupted machines left over from Medusa's golden age, and exploring tombs filled with wonders and lore, granting him priceless knowledge. Manus never stayed long among people, but all the clans considered the primarch an honorary member, seeing him effectively as a god among them. He did not ask for worship, nor encouraged it, but did demand unflinching obedience and almost always received it. It was not uncommon for the Sage Monarch to visit a clan, leading its best warriors against mutant tribes and cybernetic hordes. As a reward for their service, Manus would gift items of advanced technology, which only furthered the clans' adoration of him.

 _The screens flickered on, backup power generators miraculously still functioning even after all this time. Grey-black dust fell from the ceiling, but he was certain it wouldn't collapse like several others had. Under his feet, he could feel massive gears grinding to activation, sparking life into the half-cracked monitors._

 _Once this place had been the command bunker of Old Medusa's imperial military, from where they waged wars of conquest that saw them rule hundreds of worlds. What few vids and data-logs existed in their uncorrupted form told him much. Ancient Medusans were highly advanced, using legions of independently thinking robotic droids that swarmed their enemies with human commanders directing them._

 _He did not know when the empire fell, or what caused it though he had his suspicions. Listed only as the Calamity, other details being sparse, he knew it ravaged the empire, seeing to its decline then fall, with Medusa going from a world of pristine beauty to the hell it had become._

 _There is a lesson here, he thought, as he continued to delve into the records. The overconfidence and weakness of that empire saw to its death, its artificial minions rebelling. It was all a matter of strength of mind, body and will. The ancients lacked it, but he did not. Where they failed, he would succeed._

In his travels, the primarch discovered old research laboratories, and learned much about the technology that had once been common. Tinkering with designs millennia old, he built hundreds of machines, many of them failures in one way or another but this did not dissuade Manus. For every failure, a lesson was learned, improvements added to later models to rectify previous issues. It did not take long for the primarch to build fifty droids that were bound to his will but carried within them advanced logic-matrixes, allowing limited independent thought and action.

Accompanied by the droids, Manus journeyed back to Asfaleia, intent on constructing factories to create more robotic soldiers to better protect his people. What Manus found instead was a city in ruin, walls broken by combat, and smoke rising from all districts. Worried for the people's safety, Manus rushed to the city. When he arrived to the broken gates, the Gorgon came face to face with those who dared attack his domain. Instead of being scavenging marauders or predatory monsters, it was the City Guard who had turned against it.

Truly enraged for the first time, Manus killed the Guards at the gate, his silent sentinels assisting in what would be their first instance of killing. Manus interrogated the sole survivor, discovering that when he had left, the city divided itself into factions, with each member of the elected body leading their own. What began as a political standoff quickly broke down into street-fighting, eventually devolving all out urban warfare. Thousands of innocents were caught in the crossfire of greed and naked ambition.

Manus executed the survivor, entered the White City and began to reclaim it one block at a time, gathering supporters who were tired of the needless violence. Promptly organised by the Sage Monarch, and armed with weapons of dead Guardsmen, this new militia spread through the city, killing the misled defence army and executing the corrupt politicians that commanded them. After two days, the Gorgon arrived to Elector Hall and dragged the leading executors of the oppression into the streets, casting them to the vengeful crowds who tore them apart in retribution.

It was there, surrounded by the baying masses and the corpses of those who were entrusted to lead them but failed so miserably, that Manus experienced a revelation. Never before had such gross betrayal occurred on Medusa. The White City had been built to act as a haven; instead it turned into a cesspool of foul corruption. Manus realised that humanity did not deserve such safe harbour, for there all bonds of community and dependence on their neighbours faded away to be replaced by less desirable wants. Safety led to overconfidence, overconfidence led to selfishness, and selfishness led to weakness. In the ruins of Asfaleia, Manus told the people that no longer should they shy away from hardship but must instead embrace it, purging the weakness inherent in humanity. Some were shocked by these words, but even more understood and began to follow this stark philosophy.

Manus ordered the city to evacuate, and a majority followed this, heading into the wild with limited supplies. The few that stayed, refusing the primarch's command or too weak to survive outside Asfaleia's walls were allowed to remain for a single night. The following morning the city's plasma reactors, designed and built by Manus, were overloaded and the White City was destroyed.

 _The mushroom cloud rose into the air, blooming outwards. Standing leagues away, he could still feel the intense heat. A wave of irradiated dust blew past him, but such things were no threat. The few thousand that had remained were now nothing more than ash._

 _The mushroom slowly dissipated, and he turned away, moving into the outlands. A league outside the blast radius was where he saw them. Numbering in their thousands, they called themselves the Silver Front, and pledged themselves to him. As he approached, they fell to their knees, muttering his name in devotion as he passed._

" _Ferrus Manus," spoke an old man who despite his age was full of resolve. Manus nodded to him, respecting the determination there. The species would be purified with the resolve of those who suffer._

" _Ferrus Manus," spoke a woman, her beauty marred by a scar crossing her face, but physical appearance mattered little on Medusa, only strength, and she had plenty. From her womb would be birthed a more worthy specimen._

" _Ferrus Manus," spoke a boy no older than eleven. In Asfaleia he would have lived a comfortable life, but the boy knew living in the White City weakened him, made him soft and helpless. Better to struggle day-to-day than to live in temporary bliss that only left you vulnerable. Manus understood this now; he only wished he could have seen it sooner. If he had, maybe those that died during the civil war would yet live._

 _Manus passed the kneeling figures, approaching the handful of droids that had come out of the battle in reasonable shape. They did not kneel but why should they, for they were far more loyal and deadlier than any mere human. The Gorgon walked past them, too, and he heard the rustling and thuds of thousands of footsteps impacting the grey-black earth as they rose and turned to march with him. He would not resist until all weakness on Medusa had been expunged._

From the graveyard that had been Asfaleia, Manus departed with his followers. Wherever there were permanent settlements, Manus and his army arrived, intent on erasing what they saw as idealistic foolishness. The primarch would stand before a settlement's gates, offering them a choice. All had heard of Ferrus Manus, the Gorgon, Sage Monarch, Builder and Destroyer of the White City, and despite the uncompromising ideology he orated, many chose to follow it, either out of fear or because of the domineering presence he commanded. Most surrendered, willingly tearing down their homes to return to the harsh lands their ancestors originated. Only a handful of these men and women survived, but those that did endure the hazards set against them joined the hardened nomadic clans. During this time the clans retained the Gorgon's favour, and among them new weapons and machines were created to further their wars with one another. Manus allowed and encouraged this, though he detested anything that did not have a material function.

Some unsurprisingly chose to resist Manus and in doing so signed their death warrant. None survived the primarch's cold callousness; no weakness could be allowed to take root. Towns burned that year, the screams of innocents echoing into the night air. Soon, the last settlement, Elpida, came under assault. Manus led his droids and Silver Front soldiers, overrunning the poorly conjured defences and within hours all inhabitants had been put to death.

As the fading embers of Elpida drifted into the cloying winds, climax of Manus' successful crusade, the thick cloud cover overhead parted and a single golden dropship descended to the devastated earth of Medusa. Aboard was the Emperor of Mankind. Unlike the meeting with Fulgrim, Dorn or Sanguinius, the first meeting between the Emperor and the Tenth Son was violent.

The Emperor, upon seeing Manus' Abominable Intelligences, drew His sword and cut them down. Manus retaliated and the two fought for seven hours before the Emperor won, humbling Manus. The Master of Mankind told His son what he had been created for. After discussing further matters within Karaashi, the Gorgon's private sanctum, Manus swore allegiance to the Emperor and His Imperium.

 **Great Crusade-**

The pre-primarch Tenth Legion secured several notable victories in the early decades of the Great Crusade. The Scyther Purge, the Lyasx Extermination, and other renowned campaigns took place, establishing themselves as a remorseless, highly-coordinated, and disciplined force. The Legion began to garner a reputation for largescale set-pieces and armoured warfare, which was put to the test in a massed Imperial crusade against the notorious Ork empire Krooked Klaw led by Wardog Kulo. The Seraphin Offensive, as it came to be known, was at the time of its inception the largest Imperial mobilisation yet undertaken. Elements from eleven Legions and hundreds of Imperial Army regiments were led by the Emperor, Russ and Horus. On the key Mining World of Rust, the Tenth used their vaunted tactics to kill millions of greenskins in a single day. Tank columns speared through the Ork rabble, dividing and forcing them into kill-boxes for APCs and air support to butcher. Army units that fought beside the legionnaires named them Storm Walkers, in awe of what they had witnessed. The Battle of Rust was the opening battle of the Seraphin Offensive, and the Storm Walkers fought on another dozen worlds before Krooked Klaw was defeated; the worlds cleansed of xenos and integrated into the Imperium as colonies. As a unique culture and sense of self formed, all looked bright and assured for the Legion. But only a few years later word reached them that the Tenth Son had been discovered on Medusa, and their fate changed forever.

Before taking command of the Legion based off his genome, the primarch journeyed to Terra to better learn about the Imperium and its advanced technologies. Manus was impressed by what the Emperor had thus far accomplished, and doggedly took to learning all he could. While in Sol, Manus visited Sacred Mars, establishing close ties with multiple ranking tech-priests, beginning what would be a long and fruitful partnership for both parties. After nearly a year away, Manus returned to Medusa. Upon arrival, the primarch found the Tenth Legion in its entirety anchored in high orbit, awaiting their primogenitor. The legionnaires in a show of loyalty and dedication to their gene-sire had their left hand removed, replaced by an augmetic. To honour their liege, the Storm Walkers renamed themselves the Iron Hands. The Sage Monarch officially assumed command of his progeny, pleased by their combat record, and began to mould them to better fit what he envisioned. Concerning Medusa, the Gorgon did not unify the planet under one government and forbade any easement of life, viewing the constant warfare between clans as beneficial for producing the most ideal Aspirants. The Telstarax was made off-limits to the wider Imperium, only Iron Hands and trusted Mechanicum allies were allowed to prowl through its dark corridors, discovering technologies long thought lost. Soon after the transfer of command, the Legion returned to the Great Crusade.

To the Iron Hands, failure was a weakness, something to avoid at all costs. This was reflected in their exemplary service record. Thousands of worlds were brought to heel by the Legion, quickly earning them the nickname 'Iron Tenth.' Due to their disdain of weakness and unforgiving outlook on things, few Legions chose to fight beside Manus and his sons. The one exception was the Emperor's Children. While visiting Terra for the second time, Gorgon met Phoenician. The brothers had never met before and heated words were initially exchanged, ending with the two competing in forging the perfect weapon as a test of skill. Fulgrim forged a warhammer, _Forgebreaker_ , and Manus crafted the power sword _Fireblade_. Each believed their own weapon to be superior until they saw what the other had made. Without speaking, the weapons were exchanged and an eternal friendship was thus born. It might seem odd that these very different Legions would bond so well, but the Tenth's pursuit of strength and the Third's strive for perfection held many similarities and overrode any aesthetic differences. Bounded by belief and their primarchs' friendship, both Legions became quite close, as noted by the hundreds of worlds brought to compliance together.

It is unknown when Manus became disgruntled with the Emperor, but the proscriptions on Abominable Intelligences were long known as a sore spot. The Tenth Legion used combat servitors extensively during the Great Crusade, and was investigated several times by the Legio Custodes and Mechanicum for any violations of the Emperor's Edicts, but none were discovered, though rumours abounded of experiments taking place in secreted bases. Nonetheless, despite having very different opinions on multiple matters, father and son respected one another greatly. Several other primarchs did as well, including Guilliman who went so far as to declare Manus one of the Dauntless Few.

Heated debates, aside from banned technologies, arose during the Crusade's latter years. As the power of the War Council waned and the Council of Terra increased, Manus became worried of what having a primarch-less governing body would do to the Imperium. Manus believed mortals to be inherently weak, only to be used and guided, not put into positions of such power and responsibility. The primarch decried that doing so put the Imperium in unnecessary risk long-term. The Emperor ignored these complaints. Not long after, at the Ullanor Triumph, the Master of Mankind told the assembled primarchs that He was retiring to Terra and that Horus would command the Crusade in His stead. The Gorgon had long respected Horus as a commander but cared little for him as a brother, and seeing the Emperor seemingly abandon the Crusade eroded Manus' belief in Him.

Years later, the Great Crusade neared its end and Manus became increasingly concerned that once the galaxy was secured, the Imperium would experience a fate similar to Asfaleia but on a galactic scale. The Emperor's intentions, at least from his point of view, of creating an empire of blunted science and unrealistic idealism only laid the groundwork for its inevitable demise.

It was during this period of bitter disillusionment that Fulgrim arrived, whispering of their father's lies, revealing to Manus the existence of the Ruinous Powers. Though Manus cared little for beings that demanded faith, he did recognise and admire their strength. To the Gorgon, the Imperium would likely die out in mere centuries with the Council of Terra assuming more and more responsibilities as the Emperor spent an increasing amount of time in His laboratories. So when Fulgrim spoke of dethroning the Emperor, installing himself as His successor, he found his beloved brother a willing listener. Manus agreed that the Emperor needed to be overthrown, lest the rot of complacency become too ingrained.

The two talked for days, discussing strategy and how the rebellion's initial strike should stun and gravely wound the Imperium. Once finished, Fulgrim left for Chemos where he would initiate the Feast of Rebirth; Manus on the other hand gathered most of his sons and set course for Ultramar.

 _For every choice, there is reason. Lorgar turned against our father out of false faith, Curze out of misguided justice, Angron for feigned freedom, but I joined Fulgrim because he was my closest brother, friend and confidant. If any deserve to sit upon the Throne, it is him. Only he has the vision and determination to unite us all, to save Mankind from itself._

 _Already the others are scheming and deciding what they will do in the new order, the war still in its infancy. Lorgar wishes to become Supreme Minister of Chaos Absolute, Curze the Justicar, Angron the next Warmaster, but I aspire nothing more than to be Fulgrim's instrument. Together, he and I will reshape the Imperium and ensure it endures until the stars die out._

Manus arrived to the Civilised World of Calth, a major mustering point for the XIII, and acted under the falsehood of wishing to partake in an upcoming campaign against the Orks at Ghaslakh. The Ultramarines, though surprised, warmly welcomed them. For days the two Legions undertook joint military exercises, both planet-side and across the star system, readying themselves to deploy to the far edge of the Eastern Fringe. Manus waited patiently for Fulgrim's signal to attack, and when it finally came soon after the successful Dropsite Massacre, the Iron Hands were in prime position to cripple a significant portion of the Thirteenth Legion. Before the XIII realised what was happening, the Iron Hands opened fire on their cousins. The first hours were devastating, over thirty thousand Ultramarines dying in orbit as their fleet came under heavy fire, with entire squadrons destroyed or overtaken with ease.

As the Calth Atrocity's first shots were fired, Captain Ulrach Branthan's strike cruiser _Sisypheum_ emerged from stealth and poisoned Veridia's Star, irreversibly damaging the outer photosphere of the sun, causing it to go from a bright healthy yellow to an angry blue as its internal composition permanently shifted.

This horrid act quickly made itself known to Calth's defenders as the planet's atmosphere became pummelled by intense solar radiation, making the surface inhospitable even for armoured legionnaires. Billions of Calth's inhabitants died of radiation poisoning, the survivors scurrying to the subterranean arcologies which held a modicum of protection from the devastating solar flares. In orbit, the Iron Hands cut through the Ultramarines with ease. The commander of the Throne-loyal forces on Calth was Tetrarch Stolos Amyntas but he was simply outclassed by the Gorgon's strategies. In just three days, the Iron Hands were victorious, the tetrarch killed by Manus. Nearly sixty thousand Ultramarines had died, thousands more either trapped in Calth's arcologies or were aboard heavily damaged warships fleeing the Veridian System.

Days later a massive armada emerged from the Empyrean, but much to the dismay of the surviving loyalists it was not a retribution fleet. Instead it was the hated Word Bearers led by Lorgar Aurelian. The Traitor Legions rendezvoused over Calth and the primarchs discussed their next move. Lorgar had a plan that would cut off Ultramar from the rest of the Imperium but must be done so carefully. To begin what Lorgar called the Ruinstorm, Manus landed on Calth with his brother in the ruins of Ithraca, where the Word Bearer Primarch conducted a Chaos ritual, using their demigod blood and the gene-seed of thousands of dead XIII legionnaires to begin destabilising real-space and the warp throughout Ultramar, making travel increasingly difficult for loyalist forces as well as separating Ultramar from the greater Imperium.

The ritual completed, the Traitor Legions left Calth, leaving behind contingents that would combat the Ultramarines and Army regiments in what would be dubbed the Underground War, preventing loyalist evacuation and their subsequent deployment elsewhere in the Five Hundred Worlds.

 **Shadow Crusade-**

The Shadow Crusade may have begun at Calth, but it was far from over. Scores of worlds fell victim to the Iron Hands and Word Bearers in the subsequent two years. The Legions' armadas divided into dozens of powerful fleets and scattered across Guilliman's Realm, wreaking death wherever they tread. Armies of battle-automata and summoned swarms of daemons led by traitor legionnaires saw billions of Ultramar citizens die. To the defending Ultramarines, their sense of honour and desire to protect innocent civilians saw their numbers spread thinly across the Five Hundred Worlds, but this only played into the traitors' hands. To the surprise of Guilliman and his Chapter Masters, worlds of strategic or military value were typically ignored, only worlds with heavy populations targeted. As the Shadow Crusade entered its final stage, three worlds were attacked in conjunction that would solidify the Ruinstorm's aetheric stormwall, cutting off the Ultramarines Legion within its sub-empire and preventing their reinforcement of Terra.

 _Manus stood on the bridge of the_ Fist of Iron _, arms folded, awaiting Lorgar. Standing there, servitors, crew members, and legionnaires moved about, readying the fleet for departure, Manus thought of the wider war that stormed through the Imperium. Communicating with Fulgrim was difficult, but made possible due to pacts made with the Ruinous Powers. Manus had learned of the Martian Schism, Chrom's Dark Mechanicum supported by thirteen thousand Iron Hands under Shadrak Meduson's command, the Night of Silent Knives and countless more battles that had taken place in the two years since Bellanor. Across the galaxy, everything from battle-automata to heavy siege guns were being manufactured and deployed, furthering the War Commander's drive to Terra._

 _It did not take long for Lorgar to arrive, flanked by several XVII officers and preachers. Manus frowned at the piety Lorgar put on display, but the Gorgon had found the daemons Lorgar had summoned to their side to be quite valuable. Where his brother saw the divine, Manus saw possibilities. He wondered how to unite his knowledge of metal with Lorgar's faith, combining the two elements to create a new era of weaponry and advancement. Later, it would have to be later. With Lorgar's arrival, the Shadow Crusade could now finally come to a close._

" _Ferrus," Lorgar said kindly, armour coloured dark crimson with gunmetal trim. "It is time we end this."_

 _Manus grunted agreement, moving to stand beside the Urizen, and began to plan the final blow._

The Civilised World of Magniat sported a population of twenty-six billion, defended by a thousand Ultramarines. Word Bearers under the command of Dark Apostle Tanus Kreed invaded, overwhelmingly the loyalists within hours. Over the course of several days, mass genocidal rituals took place across Magniat, sacrificing the planet's population. The violent ritualistic death of so many further strengthened the turbulent Ruinstorm, making even short warp jumps more dangerous.

Elsewhere, Iax had a far smaller population of only three hundred million but was one of the most productive Agri-Worlds in the entire Imperium, proudly called the 'Garden of Ultramar' and provided foodstuffs for a hundred worlds in the Ultima Segmentum. The world was attacked by Iron Hands commanded by Captain Vaakal Desaan. The Iron Hands assaulted the fortified capital city of First Landing, killing its Ultramarine and Army garrison. However, they did not strike elsewhere across Iax, rather using the agri-control systems of First Landing to initiate a nanite-based cellular virus that swiftly spread a bio-engineered disease across the planet's bountiful fields, devastating harvests that fed hundreds of billions. Mission complete, Desaan departed Iax. Unbeknownst to the Iron Hand officer, days after his departure the Iaxians were able to contain and destroy the contaminated crops, though nearly ninety percent of their farmland was lost and would take centuries of careful rehabilitation to become fertile once more. Total loss was prevented but the devastation was nonetheless felt. Tens of billions within Ultramar would die from starvation in the ensuing years, the effects long felt even after the Heresy.

While Magniat and Iax were under attack, the lion's share of the Shadow Crusade arrived to the Fortress World of Armatura. The XIII legionnaires that guarded Armatura were the Evocati, an elite twenty thousand-strong formation. Supplemented by a billion soldiers of the Imperial Army, Ultramar Defence Auxilia, as well as a full Titan Legion and accompanying Skitarii units, the Evocati commander, Legatus Orfeo Cassandar was confident he could hold against the traitors until reinforcements from Macragge arrived. Cassandar would have been correct if it were not for Lorgar revealing his Legion's secret weapons.

Emerging from the Empyrean in dangerous proximity to Armatura were two immense warships that dwarfed even Gloriana-class vessels. These were the _Trisagion_ and the _Blessed Lady_ , sister ships of the late _Furious Abyss._ It was due to these Abyss-class dreadnoughts that the Tenth and Seventeenth Legion broke through the amassed orbital defences of the Fortress World, landing their Astartes on the surface in the tens of thousands.

 _First Captain Gabriel Santar cut down a cobalt blue legionnaire. An unhelmed Ultramarine rose from a foxhole, firing the last bolts in his pistol. The shots dented Santar's modified Terminator war-plate but little more. Stepping forward, he pierced the Space Marine's plasteel and ceramite chestplate with his Lightning Claws. Santar lifted the Ultramarine up into the air. The legionnaire only grimaced in pain, spitting a wad of blood and spit that dribbled down Santar's armoured cheek._

" _Your will is strong, your defiance laudable," he spoke, voice booming from the vox-grille, "but your flesh is weak." With a twist and flick the loyalist was ripped open, gore covering Santar. Discarding the corpse, he continued forward, motioning for the advance element of the Morlocks to surge forward and secure the battlements that opposed them. Overhead, more and more drop-pods and dropships descended through the fire-laden sky._

 _At the forefront of the Legion's advance stood Manus, killing Ultramarines with every swing of his warhammer, their bodies joining those already perished. Protected by the primarch-crafted Iron Circle, Santar knew no harm would come to his father. The Sage Monarch led the charge, entire clan-companies running forward. Thundering on the flanks was the armoured might of the Tenth Legion, thousands of tanks of all models, ranging from Land Raider to Fellblade. In the air flew flight after flight of Medusan fighters and bombers ready to drop their payloads._

 _Armatura would resist, it would fight and claw to survive, but it would fail like all the others. All would bend to the Gorgon, either willingly or forced to, but it was inevitable. For Mankind's continuing existence it had to be done._

The Battle of Armatura lasted three days but the moment traitor forces landed on the surface the result was decided. Fleet destroyed within hours, outer defences overrun by the end of the first day, the Thirteenth Legion survivors hoped to slow down the traitors through urban warfare. This failed when Lorgar completed the ritual begun on Calth two years ago, the battle's immense bloodshed culminating in its completion. Tears in reality formed all over the planet, and from them emerged daemons in numbers uncountable. The mortal soldiers were the first to die, many going mad with fear, while the Evocati Ultramarines did their best but were simply unprepared to face such creatures that they had only heard terrified whisperings of.

The mechanised blitzkrieg of the Iron Hands broke through the final loyalist battlements, bringing Manus face to face with Legatus Cassandar. Manus killed the Ultramarine commander, and as a sign of respect for his efforts at resistance burned his body in a funeral pyre rather than giving it to the Word Bearers who desired to use it for nefarious purposes.

The fall of Armatura solidified the Ruinstorm's enclosing stormwalls, ensuring none would escape from Ultramar. With thirty worlds made inhabitable and another hundred touched by war, Manus and Lorgar considered their Shadow Crusade a resounding strategic victory. The only negatives to the campaign had been the inability to irrecoverably cripple the Thirteenth Legion and kill Roboute Guilliman. And despite the devastation wrought on Ultramar, the XIII would in time recover.

Both Traitor Primarchs realised they could not allow Guilliman to substantially rebuild his Legion nor repair the damage done to the Five Hundred Worlds, for when Fulgrim defeated their father and became the Second Emperor of Mankind then Guilliman's Realm would be a redoubt for any loyalist forces. Manus and Lorgar both agreed to leave a significant portion of their forces in Ultramar. Manus left some twenty thousand under the command of the skilled Amadeus DuCaine, while Lorgar left a similar amount under the joint-command of First Captain Kor Phaeron and High Chaplain Erebus. These traitor contingents would harrow Ultramar until the final months of the war, unrelenting and causing great sorrow. While not posing as dire a threat as the primarchs, they nonetheless ensured tremendous suffering that kept the Ultramarines from fully recovering during the Heresy.

The bulk of the Word Bearers and Iron Hands departed the Ruinstorm-enclosed Ultramar soon after Armatura. The influx of Lorgar, Manus, and their Astartes stiffened the rebellion's exposed flanks, as well as allowing it to regain the initiative in several major theatres of war.

 _The arched halls and decorated corridors of the_ Pride of Chemos _were awash with jubilation. Not only were mortals celebrating, but so too were legionnaires. Black and silver embraced purple and gold, accounts of battle retold, friendships and camaraderie renewed._

 _Ferrus Manus entered the Court of the Phoenician, flags bearing the iron gauntlet hung beside those with the Chemosian Phoenix, considered equal in the eyes of the beholders. The crowd was made up of officers and champions from both Legions, intermingled in a show of unity. At his arrival, Iron Hand and Son of Fulgrim knelt in salute. Even the ever-alert Phoenix Guard bowed before retaking position. Sitting on a throne of white veined obsidian was Fulgrim the Phoenician, Illuminator, Saviour of Humanity, future Second Emperor of Mankind, and War Commander of the Eight Legions._

 _Manus walked halfway before saluting with clenched fist over primary heart, kneeling in honour of his brother. Rich cultured laughter came from the throne and Manus looked up seeing his brother rise and descend the steps to the main floor. In seconds, Fulgrim stood before him, beckoning him to rise._

" _Ferrus," he said warmly, "never again will you need to kneel to me. You are my closest brother, my truest friend. When I take the Golden Throne, it is only right you stand there beside me as a trusted advisor. Arise, dear brother, and together we will save Mankind!"_

 _The Court erupted into loud celebration as the primarchs embraced._

The next five years of the Heresy saw the Iron Tenth fight in a multitude of theatres across the Imperium, from the Battles of Aalandra and Tyros, to the Siege of Gharran and the Heavy Worlds Campaign, and far more, culminating in the invasion of Sol. It took thirty days for the Traitor Legions to fight their way through the Praetorian's Five Spheres, the Solar Colonies falling to the War Commander one by one. Void supremacy secured in the Inner System, the Traitor Legions assumed position over Terra, Angron leading the attack on Luna, silencing its laser-defence grid that inflicted heavy losses on the traitor armada. While Luna fell to the Unbroken Gladiator, and Fulgrim marshalled his vast forces in Terran orbit, Manus and the Iron Hands made way to Mars, relieving the surviving Dark Mechanicum Forges. There, they resupplied and evacuated much in the ways of material, weapons and warp-corrupted machines for use on the Throneworld.

The invasion of Terra began with the White Scars and World Eaters capturing the Eternity Wall and Lion's Gate Spaceports, respectively. With these secured, Manus was able to deploy the Tenth Legion's vast arsenal. Hephaestus-class super heavy siege cannons, constructed in secret on several worlds for the sole purpose of tearing down the Palace's walls, were only the most notable but far from the only weapons laid against the Imperial Palace.

After the relatively easy capture of the spaceports, matters became difficult for the Eight Legions. Dorn had fortified Terra more thoroughly than Fulgrim had assumed, and Perturabo's assistance only made it more daunting. Fulgrim knew that out of his rebel brothers, only Manus could overcome such obstacles. Under Manus' leadership, the traitors began to assail the Palace, slowly but surely forcing the loyalists back. The fall of the Saturmine Gate and the Ultimate Gate were only made possible through the siege guns of the Iron Hands. Even the inconvenient arrival of the Raven Guard did little to slow the Gorgon's assaults. The majority of the XIX were scattered across Terra, battling the White Scars, with only Corax and his veteran companies slipping into the Palace to reinforce the defenders.

Months of gruelling warfare bore fruit when the War Commander's forces reached the Eternity Gate. There, Manus' genius was put to the test. Unending artillery barrages were only one facet of the punishment dealt upon the Eternity Gate, pummelling at its thick walls for weeks. When at last a crevice appeared on the ninety-third day, the traitors swarmed the breach, victory tantalising close. Their advance was met by none other than three primarchs and their veteran elite, intent on preserving the Emperor's dream.

 _The thick cloying smoke had not even begun to settle when elements of all Eight Legions rushed to the gap. The Iron Tenth's siege guns fell silent for the first time in months, lest their ordinance fall upon allies._

 _Manus led his sons to the Eternity Gate, warhammer in hand. As those loyal to the War Commander neared, three demigods stood in the Gate's breach. Horus Lupercal, Warmaster of the Imperium, held_ Worldbreaker _in one hand, Talon in the other. Corvus Corax's Lightning Claws crackled with energy, the Ravenlord's jump pack hummed with contained power. Perturabo the Iron King hefted a storm shield in one hand, power sword in the other._

 _The daemon Ka'Bandha roared in challenge as it charged Horus. Angron approached his once beloved brother in solemn silence; the Ravenlord's face one of sorrow as he stepped forward to fight. Manus moved to Perturabo, intent on ending what had started on Norwellias. The Iron King stepped forward, and began to speak, voice muffled by his helm._

" _I had thought you better than this. But it appears I was wrong, that all of us were wrong. You bellow a wish for strong empire yet undermined the one already built by our hands. You think the species weak, yet your betrayal and genocides make it so. You're immersed in hypocrisy, Ferrus, and you don't even realise it."_

 _Manus ignored the words, levelling_ Forgebreaker _. Perturabo did not understand, so few truly did. The Iron King shook his head, as if disappointed. Perturabo raised his shield and Manus stormed forward._

The defenders held the breach, throwing back wave after wave of daemons and traitor legionnaires. After Horus banished the Bloodthirster, the traitors were forced to withdraw and the loyalists bulldozed the breach shut. Shortly thereafter, Manus informed Fulgrim of the setback, followed quickly by Magnus the Red detailing that loyalist reinforcements were inbound to Sol. Manus told the War Commander it would take a week, minimum, to create another fissure in the Eternity Gate. Fulgrim was furious, his rebellion under threat of being defeated, but he would not simply give up. Summoning Alpharius, the Phoenician readied for a last bold strike.

Two days later, the Inner Palace's void-shielding suffered catastrophic failure, allowing Fulgrim and a strikeforce to teleport deep into the Palace. As Fulgrim did this, Manus initiated a massive assault onto the Eternity Gate to distract the loyalists. While the diversion worked, when word reached the Gorgon of Fulgrim's death he nearly drowned in grief. Not even news of Dorn's death or the Emperor's wounding alleviated the pain. There was sadness, but also a well of volcanic fury.

Even as the other Traitor Legions hastily fled Terra, Manus ordered the Iron Hands to assault the Eternity Gate one last time, intent on finishing what Fulgrim started. The Gorgon believed if he could overrun the wearied defenders and kill the Emperor then everything he had sacrificed wouldn't have been for naught. The next few hours saw the Iron Tenth lose thousands upon thousands of legionnaires in their attempts to break through loyalist battlements. Finally, the Sage Monarch ordered the retreat after seeing entire clan-companies butchered by loyalist Astartes, recognising the futility of pointlessly dying for no avail. Gabriel Santar's death by Sigismund's blade was another key factor in convincing the Tenth Primarch to concede defeat, realising that he had let emotion cloud his judgment. The Iron Hands withdrew to their landing zones in an orderly fashion, preventing being overrun by vengeful Imperials, and boarded the remaining void-craft to escape. As the last Traitor Legion to leave Terra, the Iron Hands brooded over what could have been, detesting the perceived weakness in others but especially in themselves. Manus secluded himself in his chambers aboard the _Fist of Iron_ , pondering all that had transpired. .

 **Post-Heresy-**

Forgebreaker _lay across his lap. He tapped the metal. It was a magnificent weapon. Holding it brought memories of when he first saw Fulgrim hefting it in the forges beneath the Urals. That… was a better time. So much had been lost, never to be recovered. Looking to his left only reminded him further of the son who should stand there. But Santar was dead, killed by the Emperor's Champion._

 _So much had been lost, but so much needed to be retained._ Your death will not be in vain, brother _._ I will continue the struggle.

 _The doors to his chamber opened, Lorgar, Curze and Alpharius entered. Manus rose from the throne and moved to the central hololithic dais in the chamber. The other three primarchs took position around the dais. He activated the hololith with a gesture. It blinked on, showing the Imperium. Half was dark blue, most of the remainder arterial red._

" _The Imperium's reclamation has begun," stated Manus, "The Year of Intermission is over; the Scouring now advances towards our domains. Alone, we fall, but together we may stand a chance. The Sons of Fulgrim are leaderless; the Black Legion and Thousand Sons cower in the Eye; the World Eaters are carving a bloody path to Nuceria; and the White Scars are untrustworthy, their actions during the Siege prove that. Only we can defy the Imperium with any chance of success." The others nodded their understanding and agreement._

In response to the Imperium's retribution, Manus and three of his brothers formed the Syndicate Chaotica, intent on preserving their vast territories. For four years this alliance proved its worth, impeding the Imperium's retaliation in multiple sectors. For a brief moment, it appeared that large swathes of the Imperium would remain under traitor control, but it all began to unravel when word of Alpharius' death at the hands of Guilliman reached the other Syndicate primarchs. Following the withdrawal and subsequent fragmentation of the Alpha Legion, the Word Bearers stripped Colchis of anything of remote value and headed for the Eye of Terror, the calls of the Ruinous Powers beseeching Lorgar to arrive.

Disgruntled with the shattering of the alliance he had forged, Manus ordered the Tenth Legion to abandon a majority of its warzones across the galaxy and redeploy to Medusa and its adjoining star systems. There, Manus established the Ferrum Dominion, intent on preserving all he had sacrificed and fought for. The primarch ordered his sons to fortify their homeworld and the other star systems that made up the Dominion. Using slave labour, massive battlements were resurrected in conjunction with world spanning trench systems, kilometre long chains of fortified bunkers, and more were erected on each world of Manus' sub-empire.

While the fracturing of the Syndicate was celebrated by the High Lords, the continued threat of the Iron Hands was palpable. The Dominion might have been miniscule when compared to the Emperor's monolithic Realm but it was nonetheless a sharp thorn in the resurgent Imperium. Due to the level and extent of fortification laid down by the Tenth Legion, the High Lords agreed that only the IV or the VII would be able to overcome its imposing defences. With the Imperial Fists having suffered greatly during the Siege, and the vast bulk still alive fighting alongside Horus in the subjugation and destruction of Chemos and Chogoris, it fell to the Iron Warriors to crush the Dominion.

It took Perturabo months to call forth enough Iron Warriors to make invading the Dominion a possibility; such was their dispersed deployment across the galaxy in various campaigns. In that time, the Fourth Primarch used his position as Praetorian to enlist the help of several Titan Legions and hundreds of Skitarii divisions. The Mechanicum, thankful for the Iron Warriors' efforts during the Martian Schism, gladly attached these powerful forces under the Iron King's command.

After months of preparation, Perturabo launched his invasion of Manus' worlds, beginning what would go down in Imperial chronicles as the First Iron War. Despite numbering a scant twenty-three worlds, the Dominion resisted the Fourth Legion for three years. Although the Iron Warriors fielded more in the way of legionnaires and Mechanicum support, the Iron Hands used their battle-automata and other tech-heresies to their full horrid potential, balancing out the scales.

Many of the battles fought during the First Iron War would enter the annals of the Fourth and Tenth Legion, either as glorious victories or shameful defeats. From the Paradise World of Samara to the barren rock Dah'Shued, the Iron Tenth bled their loyal cousins, attempting to make even victory seem hollow. In spite of the setbacks and fierce resistance they faced, the Iron Warriors still reached their last target: Medusa.

In the long years of the Crusade, the Tenth Legion's Iron Fathers and Mechanicum allies not only explored the Telstarax but also repaired and inhabited portions of it. Weapon systems long thought irrecoverable, were repaired under their supervision, this information kept as a secret known only to scant few. So when Iron Warrior warships exited the Empyrean and entered weapons' range, the Telstarax capabilities revealed itself, much to the surprise of the IV.

 _The_ Iron Blood _shook from another direct impact. The latest hit likely killing hundreds, if not thousands from the single blow. Fortunately, there were only a handful of legionnaires in that section of the ship. Most were in dropships and drop-pods, only a single battalion remaining behind to protect the flagship when the fleet got in range to deploy its Astartes._

 _Perturabo stared at the hololithic projection, seeing for the first time the fabled Telstarax with his own eyes. He had thought it little more than a crumbling relic of the Dark Age, and maybe it once had been, but now large sections were functional, unleashing their arsenals. Already a tenth of the fleet had either been severely damaged or destroyed and they still had not reached deployment range. The Iron Hand fleet hovered protectively over Medusa, the_ Fist of Iron _a goliath among lesser ships of war, waiting to engage its equal in battle._

 _Hours passed, more and more of the fleet being left behind as dead husks or crippled ships, belching fire and plasma. The data-link between the Iron Warriors continuously updated approach vectors, incoming fire, and more, the logic-engines adapting to counteract the Iron Hands' surprise. Perturabo despatched orders curtly, manipulating the fleet's zones of defence to become overlapping, ensuring more would survive to reach Medusa's orbit._

 _By the time they came into range, a quarter of his ships had been lost. But the three-quarters that remained were filled with resolute Iron Warriors. Perturabo turned to face his Trident._

" _Forrix, Barban, prepare for ground assault. Erasmus, disable the Telstarax." The triarchs saluted and began issuing orders over their vox-beads. Perturabo unsheathed the Praetorian Sword, feeling a flicker of remorse that Rogal would no longer wield it. His brother's office and sword were now his responsibility and he would not dishonour their legacy. Setting aside his grief, Perturabo embraced the cold fury swarming through his veins. Now was not the time for remembrance. Now was the time for war._

The Iron Warriors weathered through the dense orbital defences surrounding Medusa, the Telstarax being the most formidable of them. In orbit, the _Fist of Iron_ engaged its counterpart in one of the most legendary void battles of the Scouring. As the fleets intersected, firing their broadsides and despatching boarding parties, tens of thousands of Iron Warriors deployed to Medusa's surface. What they faced as they emerged from the dropships and drop-pods were some of the fiercest resistance they had ever faced. Thousands died every day in the push towards Manus' command bunker at the base of the Ice Pinnacle, daunting battlements bloodily impeding progress.

As the loyalists neared Karaashi, the Iron Hands unleashed their latest creations: massive Ordinati-like metal leviathans waded through the battlefield on massive armoured legs, alongside heavily modified Titans, some of which held no crew but a single Abominable Intelligence. These clashed with Mechanicum and Iron Warrior forces, dealing heavy losses. Land Behemoths carried Iron Hand clan-companies to battle, taking immense effort to disable and destroy.

After a week the Fourth Legion reached the Iron Hand command centre, and there Perturabo and Manus fought once again. Their melee was akin to the thunder gods of old, booming in its intensity. The climactic battle between demigods drew the eyes of all, from lowly legionnaire to summoned daemon and manufactured sentient machine. Manus dealt a punishing blow that mangled the Iron King's left arm, but the Sage Monarch was impaled with the Praetorian Sword, the Olympian-forged blade biting deep into the primarch's chest, rupturing the primary heart and badly damaging other vital organs, pushing Manus to the brink of death. With their primarch's defeat, the Tenth Legion's morale plummeted and the battle lost.

Dragged to an evacuating dropship by his sons, Manus wheezed to his inner circle of what they should do to preserve his life. In their desperation, the Iron Hands retreated from Medusa in haste and rushed their dying father to the Eye of Terror, signalling the death of the Ferrum Dominion. In contrast, the victorious Iron Warriors burned Medusa in the fires of _Exterminatus_ , and dismantled the Telstarax piece by piece; flinging the corrupted ring into Medusa's sun, ensuring none of the tech-heresies aboard would survive to further harm the Imperium.

 _The Ironwrought oversaw the Iron Fathers and Apothecaries carefully deposit their sire onto the raised dais. From orbit, the structure they had brought the Gorgon to appeared small, no larger than an average hab-unit, but when the legionnaires arrived to the surface and entered they found the structure to be immense. Angles at odd with one another clashed, impossible geometric shapes prevalent in the structure's sole chamber. On the walls resided the Eight-Pointed Star, surrounded by Medusan script and algorithms that needed only a second's glance to confirm that they were excerpts from the_ Liber Ferrum _. How they came to be engraved onto walls no son of Manus had ever seen before until ten minutes ago was a mystery, but one the Ironwrought felt would be common enough in the Eye of Terror._

 _After setting the primarch down, the legionnaires withdrew to stand behind the Ironwrought. Their father still miraculously clung to consciousness and could hear Manus whispering but not even their transhuman hearing could discern the words._

 _The Octed symbols on the walls began to glow with baleful gold light. A warp tear formed behind the dais, and four clawed hands reached out, each different than the last, coloured in crimson red, deep blue, light purple and putrid green. They grabbed Manus and pulled him towards the tear. It took all their discipline and trust in Manus for the legionnaires not to charge forward to stop this, but they had their orders. After being pulled inside, the tear closed._

 _The Iron Fathers, Apothecaries and high ranking officers waited, impatient, and though they did not speak of it, they were worried. The wound dealt by Perturabo refused to heal, as if the Emperor's judgment accompanied the blade when it penetrated armour and flesh. Everything the Apothecaries and Iron Fathers did only slowed the bleeding, not ceasing it. If it were not for Manus being a primarch, he would have died during the exodus to the Great Storm. Talk of putting him in stasis was quickly quenched. Either Manus would survive the journey, proving his strength and will, or he would die. That thought alone continued to haunt the Ironwrought. Their father was cold and distant, rarely pleased or showed thanks, but instead of driving his sons away it made them work ever harder to attract his favour. The Iron Hands were nothing without Ferrus Manus. Four Legions had felt the death of their primarch, but the Ironwrought knew that if the Gorgon did not survive this most recent endeavour than the Tenth Legion would die in spirit, driven to self-loathing and become even more brooding._

 _Time seemed to pass slowly but after several hours the tear reopened and out stepped the primarch. The gaping wound on his chest had been healed, armour repaired and body reinvigorated. The Legion's sigil on the primarch's chest now featured an Octed imprinted behind the iron gauntlet._

 _The legionnaires fell to their knees in adoration. The strength emanating from their primogenitor was incalculable, overwhelming in its domineering aura. The Ironwrought felt his hearts beat faster as Manus walked towards them. Every step echoed like thunder and the anguished cries of the weak. Manus spoke once; his words filled to the brim with undeniable power that reverberated through his bones and making his nose bleed._

" _ **My sons, I have rejected Flesh."**_

There, on a desolate world deep in the Eye of Terror, Ferrus Manus was reborn as a Daemon-Primarch, not sworn to any one god but to all in the form of Chaos Undivided. Manus, seeing his near-death on Medusa as weakness ascended to the ranks of daemonhood in the pursuit of everlasting strength, ensuring that no matter what wound might befall him later, he would always live, always endure. The world of his rebirth was reshaped per the primarch's wishes into the Daemon World of Saderkos, a warp-shrouded planet of harsh desolate lands prowled by daemons and worse, dotted with fortresses and immense manufactora.

When the Legion Wars broke out a century after the Scouring, the Iron Hands participated, eager to prove the dominance of their Legion, even against their former favoured cousins of the III on occasion. Aside from fighting against the other Legions, the Iron Hands became the single largest exporter of weapons, ammunition, and vehicles in the Eye. This is due to a multitude of factors, particularly that so many Dark Mechanicum tech-priests had sworn loyalty to the Legion over the centuries, several of whom ruled their own Forge Worlds in fealty to the primarch. Saderkos quickly developed into a premiere Daemon Forge World under the direct rule of Manus and his chief lieutenants.

 _Technomancers_

 _There are countless Iron Hand warlords whose very name strikes fear into loyal Imperial subjects. Amadeus DuCaine, Terrek, and Shadrak Meduson to name a few, but it is the Technomancers that the Imperium dreads above all others. Selected from among the Iron Fathers, the Technomancers are the premiere disciples of Ferrus Manus. They assist their gene-sire in various blasphemous projects as well as developing their own frightening creations. Though their members have changed throughout the millennia, either losing their primarch's favour or dying in battle, the founding member Ironwrought, formerly known as Frater Thamatica before Fulgrim's Heresy, is considered the right hand of the Gorgon._

 _Always numbering eight, four of whom adhere to Chaos Undivided while the remaining four represent one of the Ruinous Powers, any mention of these favoured sons of the Tenth Primarch in Imperial space is treated as a Vermillion-level threat. Entire Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes have deployed to counter these feared Space Marines, and not always successfully. The latest sighting of one of these infamous Astartes was during the Gothic War in early M41, where the Technomancer Kristos unveiled a weapon system known only as the Stella Mortem that saw three star systems fall to War Commander Sakaeron's forces, subsequently causing the deaths of over forty billion people. Since then, the Inquisition, Mechanicum, and the Adeptus Astartes have increased their vigilance, ready to respond to any sighting of a Technomancer with utmost lethality._

Since his near-fatal wounding, Manus had been seeking revenge against Perturabo. Unfortunately with the Slave Wars occupying much of his time and resources, the Tenth Legion simply could not afford to strike at the Praetorian's Iron Cages. This changed when Tyberius Sakaeron revealed himself to Manus in secret. The self-proclaimed Heir of Fulgrim stirred the anger and desire for vengeance within the primarch, reminding the Gorgon of the bond the Third and Tenth Legions once shared. Seeing something of his beloved brother in the legionnaire, Manus allowed Sakaeron to use Karaashi Station as the location to forcibly reunite the broken remnants of the III. The plan worked, and in one bold move almost half the Third Legion warbands were united under Sakaeron. It would take much more time and far more killing before Sakaeron was ready to launch his infamous crusades against the Imperium, but if it were not for Ferrus Manus, the Second War Commander may never have come to power as quickly as he did.

Sakaeron as repayment promised that when he could, he would help the Iron Hand Primarch seek revenge on the Second Praetorian. This did not mean the Iron Hands and Sakaeron-led Sons of Fulgrim did not fight each other during the Slave Wars, as both saw continuous war as beneficial to their Astartes.

Seven centuries after the Heresy, the time finally came. Sakaeron led the First Vengeance Crusade into the Imperium, assaulting dozens of star systems around the Cadian Iron Cage. Though the Crusade was used as a testing ground and to demonstrate Sakaeron's power and commitment to the Long War, it was also an immense diversion. While the Perturabo-commanded Iron Cage forces fought for years to contain and then promptly push the traitors back into the Eye, Manus and six of the largest clan-companies were able to exit the Eye of Terror through the then unknown Arx pathway. This route from the Eye was unstable and several ships were forever lost, but most of the legionnaires made their way into the Imperium and its calmer warp currents. From there, they travelled to Olympia, home of the Iron Warriors Chapter.

It took over a year as the Iron Hand fleet had to travel cautiously, lest they make the Imperium aware of their presence. Finally, however, the Iron Hands arrived to Olympia and began their long-awaited bid for retribution. The Iron Warrior garrison consisted of only a single company spread out over their world's city-states and orbital defences, yet it is to the credit of Perturabo's genius and the resilience of his sons that these five hundred Astartes were able to prevent the total conquest of their planet to an invading army many times their size. Manus, annoyed at the resistance, had his Warlocks create a warp storm over the planet, allowing the primarch to join the fray. With the threat of being pulled back into the Immaterium now averted, Manus rampaged across Olympia, leading his warriors to victory after victory over the mountainous city-states, uncaring of the horrendous casualties the Legion suffered.

By the time Perturabo and the rest of the Iron Warriors heeded the call for help, almost half of their homeworld was covered by the warp storm. The Iron Praetorian led the reinforcements to the surface, reinforcing New Lochos. There, the Fourth Primarch denied the Tenth for months, halting the warp storm's progression worldwide. Casualties on both sides mounted, but where Perturabo had limited manpower, Manus could call upon countless daemons and vast reserves of mortal cannon fodder. As the Battle of Olympia edged closer and closer to a possible Chaos victory, Perturabo launched a last ditch attack to defeat Manus.

The Praetorian's assault surprised the Iron Hands, Iron Warrior tanks and APCs cutting through traitor forces with ease. Perturabo faced off against Manus a final time. The Iron King banished the Sage Monarch but in doing so left himself open for a killing blow from _Forgebreaker_. With Manus' banishment back to the Eye of Terror, the warp storm and daemons dissipated. This concurred with loyal Space Marine Chapters arriving in-system, trapping and destroying much of the Iron Hand fleet. Out of the few thousand legionnaires that escaped Olympia, some would make their back to the Great Eye while others would stay in real-space to raid and pillage across the Imperium. Most of these warbands would be destroyed in the next several decades.

Despite being banished to the Eye of Terror, specifically Saderkos, for a thousand years, Manus was genuinely pleased for the first time in many centuries. Even the near total destruction of the favoured Avernii Clan did little to damper his satisfaction. With Perturabo dead and the Second Iron War over, Manus spent the next several millennia occupied with heretical experimentation, developing more devastating daemon-engines and more dangerous AI. On Saderkos, the primarch would spend long stretches of time partaking in the Great Game of Chaos when not occupied with sinister research.

However, as the Dark Millennium comes to a close, the Imperium believes Manus is readying the massive war-hosts at his disposal and uniting his Legion to a degree not seen since their arrival to the Eye ten thousand years ago. To those that know of these developments, a very optimistic few think that the Gorgon is going to take advantage of the relative calm in the Eye to strike at his enemies while they are away on crusade, but almost all agree that this is unlikely and that it means Ferrus Manus is personally joining War Commander Sakaeron. If true, it will bring untold suffering and misery upon Mankind.

 **Organisation-**

At the beginning of the Great Crusade, the organisation of the Tenth Legion used the standard Legiones Astartes template. This changed when Ferrus Manus assumed command. The primarch stripped the Legion down to its roots and rebuilt it to his liking. Companies and Chapters were restructured as clan-companies. These formations typically numbered a few hundred legionnaires, but several clan-companies were known to be in the thousands, though this was rare. Due to the Legion's distaste of others, Iron Hand clan-companies were not accompanied by Imperial Army regiments, except those few that hailed from Medusa. To rectify this, Mechanicum bulk-carriers constantly resupplied Iron Hand Expeditionary Fleets with combat servitors from allied Forge Worlds but the attrition of brutal compliance actions began to take its toll, forcing the legionnaires to find a more efficient way. Aboard every warship of the Legion a manufactora unit was established to produce combat servitors at a consistent rate, overseen by an Iron Father. The larger the starship, the more it could churn out. Though the Iron Hands officially used only condemned criminals for their combat servitors, disturbing rumours in the Great Crusade's latter years whispered of the Medusan legionnaires using captured prisoners of war and even rounding up entire enemy cities, using the chaos and confusion compliance actions provided, to detain millions of innocent civilians for use later in the servitor-forges.

After the Legion joined Fulgrim's rebellion, combat servitors were replaced with the deadlier and more versatile battle-automata. These machines, originating from Iron Hand secret research labs and bases, swelled the traitor ranks and were a major benefit to the Arch-Traitor's advance towards Terra. It is estimated tens of millions, if not more, were constructed and deployed during the Fulgrimian Heresy, with countless more since.

Since the Ferrum Dominion's fiery end, the Legion has largely decentralised, the clan-companies operating independently as warbands. Only two events have consistently united the Iron Hands: the Sage Monarch calling for an Iron War against the sons of Perturabo, or War Commander Sakaeron's Vengeance Crusades.

In the years since killing Perturabo, Manus has rarely left Saderkos, much less his Iron Bastion of Despair due to being engrossed with his research and experimentation, not to mention partaking in the Great Game of Chaos for centuries at a time. As a result of this, he has delegated much authority and day-to-day responsibilities to the Great Clan Council. The Council has existed since the Legion's first years as an advisory body to the primarch but after arriving to the Eye it became the principal source of authority for the Legion. The Council is currently led by Iron Speaker Kardan Stronos, arguably the third most powerful in the Legion after Manus and the Ironwrought.

Unlike many Legions, the Tenth does not have separate Chaplain and Techmarine positions; rather it combines the two into the office of Iron Father. Widely respected and feared, as well as holding great sway in the Clan Council, these figures count amongst the Legion's elite, akin to the Dark Apostles of the Word Bearers. There are many varied units within the Tenth Legion, ranging from the veteran Morlocks to the ship-breaching Medusan Immortals, but the most unique of them are the Wanderers. The Wanderers are subservient to none but the primarch, and acted as his agents during the Crusade, Heresy and up to the present day. Every legionnaire that became a Wanderer was handpicked by Ferrus Manus due to their skill, fortitude and unflinching obedience to him. The Wandering Trials are not fully known, for there are many, but many have been confirmed to be based off the primarch's exploits on Medusa. The last test has been recorded as being a recreation of the Gorgon's final battle with Asirnoth. The aspiring Wanderer is pitted against a mechanised wyrm of Manus' own creation. Most die at this point, their corpses left to rot, but the few that best their wyrm are given the Wanderer's tattered cloak and mag-bow, symbols of their new station.

 _Boros fell to his knees, exhausted. Four months of hunting the wyrm across Saderkos had wearied him to the bone. Daemons, rogue servitors, deranged automata, and mutant tribes were only the most common and easiest of obstacles laid against him. Not ten metres away, the wyrm's metal corpse leaked silvery-blood onto the Daemon World's barren earth._

 _He lifted himself up, not wishing to appear weak. His right arm was gone at the shoulder, and he had deep gouges in his skin where blood poured from, Larraman Cells working overtime to staunch the bleeding. Standing tall, he waited and his victory was soon rewarded. A warp tear cut the air and out stepped the primarch, followed by two of the illuminated Technomancers. Boros stood, knowing if he fell to his knees now he would not get up and Manus would not deign him worthy._

 _The primarch stood still, waiting. In both silver demigod hands were items, one holding a tattered cloak based off the one the primarch wore so long ago when he arrived to dead Medusa. In the other was the mag-bow, the powerful weapon crafted by the primarch's own hands. To hold such a weapon was to glimpse briefly the power and strength infused in his gene-sire. It was a great honour and a sign of favour to receive one. Boros began moving towards Manus, each step painful and taking strong will not to fall to the ground. If he reached the primarch he would be a Wanderer, one of a select brotherhood. Each step might have been agonising but it would prove worth it in the end._

The Tenth Legion counted few Librarians in their ranks during the Crusade due to the primarch's dislike of them. Their numbers raising a miniscule amount during the Heresy and Scouring but it wasn't until Manus became a Daemon Primarch that the Librarians, now renamed Warlocks, were seen favourably and their numbers rose accordingly. These Warlocks more than make up for their numerical inferiority by using mastered warp-powers in the destruction of the Legion's enemies and its staunch defence. Most clan-companies retain the services of but one or two Warlocks, with larger clan-companies are able to field a half-dozen or more.

 **Recruitment-**

Due to Medusa's relatively low population, the Iron Hands were forced to recruit a significant portion of their Legion among the worlds they conquered during the Crusade. The children taken from the rubble of their homeworlds were thrust into the brutal training regimes of the Iron Tenth. The few that survived were made into battle-brothers, their left hand removed and replaced with an augmetic to show their commitment to primarch and Legion.

Since the Legion's relocation to the Eye of Terror, maintaining a viable mortal population on Saderkos has proven difficult. Mutation, the Daemon World's very nature of brutality, and punitive attitude of the Iron Hands mean fresh gene-stock is necessary every few generations to replenish the mortal serfs.

Said human stock is taken in raids, either against other traitors or more likely the Imperium. Thrust into the nightmarish atmosphere of the hell-forges, most die either from exhaustion or consumed by the daemons that occasionally inhabit the metalwork. Those that live long enough and prove themselves are elevated into slave-soldiers or servants. A select handful are then chosen as Aspirants for the Legion.

Before Aspirants can continue onto the legionnaire's path, they must first survive their homeworld's wastelands. Dropped far from their fortress of origin, they must combat and overcome all manner of obstacles, machines and warp-predators on their way back. Those that return to the fortress with their sanity intact become Neophytes and accept the first of many organs that will transform them from a mortal human to a transhuman Space Marine.

 **Homeworld-**

Medusa was a bleak and harsh world, producing hardy Aspirants for the Iron Hands. After their defeat in the First Iron War and their father's near-death, the Legion rushed their father to a world deep in the Eye of Terror, leaving Medusa to suffer _Exterminatus_. In the Eye, Manus was reborn as a Daemon Primarch and shaped the world as he saw fit, renaming it Saderkos. The new Legion homeworld shares many similarities with Medusa, purposefully so, though the Daemon World has far more dangers lurking on it than their former homeworld ever did.

Dotted across the planet are fortresses commanded by powerful warlords, each a centre of immense industry and authority. To rule a fortress on Saderkos is a sign of great power and influence, yet it must be consistently defended against other fortress-warlords and minor clan-companies that prowl across the Daemon World in their Land Behemoths, looking to gain the riches involved of controlling a fortress. Though there are many across Saderkos, none compare to the primarch's Iron Bastion of Despair. Easily considered one of the most formidable strongholds in the Eye, the Iron Bastion is said to be a quarter the size of the continent-spanning Imperial Palace.

The Outer Bastion, called the Flesh-Breaker, is where the Great Clan Council convenes, protected by the remnant of the Avernii Clan. The Morlocks have remained on Medusa for over nine thousand years, protecting their secluded father, awaiting for the day he leads them to war once again.

The Inner Bastion, called the Ruinheart, is the personal sanctum of the Gorgon and only those with permission are allowed to enter, lest they die a most painful death. Unlike the Flesh-Breaker, the Ruinheart is defended by advanced battle-automata of the Iron Circle, each one personally built by Manus. Aside frobm the primarch, only the Technomancers and the Iron Speaker are traditionally allowed access to the Inner Bastion, though it's not uncommon for Space Marines to be summoned by the Sage Monarch, either in punishment or to be rewarded. When an Astartes, whether they be an Iron Father, Apothecary, or a captain, joins the ranks of the Clan Council they must first secure the primarch's blessings. Many enter the Inner Bastion to do so and not all have returned, something in their character was found wanting and the primarch purged them, refusing to allow any with possible weaknesses to sit on the Council.

 **Combat Doctrine-**

Since the earliest years of the Crusade, the Tenth Legion had been renowned as experts in mechanised warfare and largescale set-piece battles. This continued and became more so when the Legion went from Storm Walker to Iron Hand. Every clan-company, no matter its size, could deploy a powerful armoured element, supported by many thousands of combat servitors.

During the Heresy, these tactics continued but now included once-forbidden technologies and weapons, and eventually daemonic hordes. In M41 the size of clan-company warbands can be deceiving to Imperial forces as they can deliver a heavier offensive punch than their numbers would warrant, as most clan-companies can still field robust armoured and artillery brigades, not to mention thousands of replaceable battle-automata to throw at the enemy.

Siege-craft and fortification were tactics not typically used by the Iron Hands during the Great Crusade, but were forced to become masters of during the Heresy and afterwards as a form of necessity. Their siege weapons allowed the Traitor Legions to breach the Imperial Palace's walls, a feat that would have been far more difficult without, and during the Scouring they perfected defensive fortification, much to the woe of the Imperial Legions.

 _Warp-forging_

 _Out of all the tech-heresies committed by the sons of Manus, it is the process of warp-forging which is considered one of the more heinous. Beginning with a Warlock summoning a powerful daemonic being, a skilled Iron Father daemonoligist imprisons the Empyrean creature in a battle-automata shell. The AI, already corrupt and baleful, is then agonisingly tortured by the daemon as it attempts to take over._

 _The fusing of daemon and AI is a difficult ordeal, one that typically fails as a majority of Neverborn cannot inhabit battle-automata as it is considered a soulless host and thus does not provide sustenance. The few successful attempts all produce a being of the foulest design and intent. Entire worlds have been lost to armies led by these possessed automatons. Named Steelwraiths by the primarch, these metal-encased daemons are hunted down by the Grey Knights whenever they appear in Imperial space, for if they do not then painful suffering is sure to occur._

 **Beliefs-**

The Iron Hands believe that only through hardship and sacrifice can strength be attained. What happened to Asfaleia during the primarch's absence convinced him Mankind could not survive as a species without struggle as it led to selfishness and weakness. The Tenth Legion embraced this philosophy wholeheartedly during the Great Crusade, and though many within the Imperium looked down upon the Iron Tenth, feeling they were overly harsh and brooding, they nonetheless admitted the Iron Hands were effective conquerors.

Towards the end of the Great Crusade, Manus began to pen his philosophical and technical masterpiece, the _Liber Ferrum_. Originally to act as a guideline for the Legion and as a way to codify the primarch's ideals, it quickly turned into a tome of heretical knowledge and bitterness as the Heresy began. The _Liber_ is still being written to this day, new passages added when scientific breakthroughs or newfound insight occurs. Unlike the _Book of Lorgar_ which is printed upon the flesh of slaves with blood ink, the _Liber Ferrum_ is las-etched onto pages of malleable silver, with the tome's covers and spine made out of burnished iron.

Despite being laser carved, the contents of the _Liber_ are ever changing, updating when in close proximity to their primarch's original copy located inside the Ruinheart. An audience with Ferrus Manus is seen as a dual blessing as it allows the _Liber_ -carrying Iron Fathers to not only receive the primarch's commands but also to download his latest wisdom and insight, furthering their own dark knowledge.

Such is the plethora of forbidden lore within its silver pages that many a Mechanicum tech-priest has become corrupted simply by holding the heretical tome. In the ten millennia since its creation, the _Liber_ has seen many tech-priests fall to Chaos. It is not an uncommon tactic for an Iron Father to secret a copy of the _Liber_ to a Forge World's hierarchy, which if not immediately discovered and contained can spread quickly. The Moirae Schism is undoubtedly the most infamous and damaging incident recorded in the annals of the Adeptus Mechanicus. A model Forge World in the Segmentum Pacificus' Tuara sub-sector, Moirae readily embraced the Gorgon's teachings and heresies found within the _Liber_ , sparking a war that would last a decade and see the sub-sector devastated for centuries. Though the Imperium emerged triumphant, the Forge World was deemed irrecoverable from Chaos and made subject to _Exterminatus_ ; the vast tonnes of war materials it produced every month forever lost to the Imperium. The _Liber Ferrum_ is considered so dire a threat that the Inquisition created the Ordo Arcanii to monitor and pursue any mention of the _Liber_ , their primary directive to destroy every copy of the Gorgon's magnum opus discovered within Imperial borders.

 _Sons of Medusa_

 _The Iron Hands fully embraced their primogenitor's beliefs. The unflinchingly adherence to this made the Legion seem inflexible and cold, but the rigidness of their mindset ensured utmost loyalty to Manus. But after the fatal blow delivered by Perturabo at the end of Medusa's siege this belief in the primarch began to crack. Some legionnaires saw their father's near-death as a sign of weakness, and several groups abandoned the Legion._

 _The largest and most powerful of these groups is the dreaded Sons of Medusa warband, led by the malevolent Autek Mor. The crimes committed by Mor and the Sons of Medusa are infamous, their atrocities stretching from the Eye of Terror to the Mandragoran Stars. The latest in a long string of massacres occurred in the Gallias System on the Eastern Fringe. Gallias, a Fortress World, was assaulted by the Sons and its people put to the sword and flame, their war-materials and resources stolen. Its loss ripped a hole in the Grendl Stars Iron Cage, causing four nearby systems to fall victim to the hyper-violent Barghesi xenos. By the time Imperial Guard and Navy responded to the threat, the Barghesi had withdrawn, the star systems scoured clean of human life._

 _It is unknown where the Sons of Medusa will strike next, but the Imperium is increasingly watchful for any sign of them._

 **Gene-seed-**

The gene-seed of the Tenth Primarch's bloodline was once quite pure but millennia of warp mutation and degradation has corrupted its quality. Before their fall to Chaos, it was rumoured that the Legion's fanatical hatred of weakness and physical frailty was a result of a genetic flaw.

Due to extensive mutation, Iron Hands generally replace corrupted limbs with augmetics, though there is a minority of legionnaires who eschew their flesh for metal, with some radicals being made up almost entirely of augmetics, barring a few vital organs.

 **Battlecry-**

The Tenth Legion has never had an official battlecry. 'The Flesh is Weak' was used heavily during the Crusade but after the Heresy this fell into disfavour. Now, clan-companies use their own individual battlecries, but common ones Legion-wide are 'By the primarch's will, submit!' or 'Death to the False Emperor!' but the most common in the past ten thousand years since the Fulgrimian Heresy has been, 'Purge the Weak!'

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I present to you the Iron Hands Index. Arguably one of my least favorite Chapters in canon W40k. The HH has allowed me to appreciate the IH as a Legion, but Manus' death at the very beginning of the Heresy almost seemed like a waste to me. They could have played on the Gorgon versus the Phoenician dynamic a bit more. Here in the FH, it is that same brotherhood that nearly created a traitor victory. If it were not for the Iron Hands, the traitors would have had a far harder time reaching Terra, much less assaulting the Imperial Palace. Hope you enjoy my take on these black and silver legionnaires.

As always, let me know what you think, your critiques and thoughts, etc, either in a review or PM. Make sure to 'Follow' and 'Favorite' the story if you enjoyed it!

Last but not least is an **immense thanks** to my beta readers: antoine, machine3589, and Nemris. Without them, this Index would not have been as good as it turned out to be.


	33. Anthology Five

**Anthology Five**

 **A Bait for Wolves**

Ahzek Ahriman, First Captain and Chief Librarian of the Thousand Sons, sat on the cold stone floor of Akkad's magnificent Crystal Library. Around him, shelf after shelf of shimmering diamond-shaped data-crystals lie waiting to be plucked from their secured glass containers. Grouped into clusters of six throughout the building were heavily modified cogitators, encased in glossed wood and plastek, an empty slot placed above the monitor where the data-crystal would go.

Outside the windows of the library, the city of Akkadia gleamed as the sun set. Elegantly designed towers and hundred storey buildings dominated the view, but accompanying them were extensive hab-blocks and warehouses, alongside beautifully crafted monuments to the Imperial Truth and Great Crusade. Atmospheric flyers and aircars filled the air, weaving through carefully cordoned traffic lanes. At a glance, all appeared peaceful, but underneath that façade was a world readying itself for war. In parks where families once dined on carefully manicured grass, now Hydra cannons aimed upwards, las-batteries with full charges and SAM turrets loaded and primed were scattered elsewhere. The small PDF had been rapidly expanded, supplemented by the poorly armed and poorly trained militia. As a Library World under the protection of the Fifteenth Legion, Akkad typically did not sport millions-strong defence force, and only had a dozen intra-system corvettes. It was a world of learning, education, and advancement of the mind.

Soon it would become a world of the slaughtered.

Ahriman rose from the floor, reassembling his bolter using Art. Akkad had been the first world of the Prosperine Hegemony, founded over a century ago and had done well in that time. Before the arrival of Magnus, the planet had been ruled by a council of despots who warred with one another over scant resources and irradiated territory. A few more centuries and Akkad would have been inhospitable to human life. That changed when the Imperium found the planet. Magnus' 87th Expeditionary Fleet brought Akkad to compliance without firing a shot in defiance. The oppressed masses overthrew the despots and joined the Imperium willingly.

Ever since then, Akkad had become a beacon of progress and knowledge, inspiring several other worlds to join the Hegemony. In the golden age that was to come after the Great Crusade, the Library World would have been a centre of learning for an unchallenged empire. Now… now it would be but another battleground in the civil war that was spreading like wildfire through the galaxy.

It had been months since Russ' Wolves brought death and fire to Prospero, leaving the Legion homeworld as nothing more than an ash-covered barren Dead World. Through great sacrifice and unspoken heroism, a third of the XV escaped the Burning. With the resources at hand, Ahriman and Magnus formulated a plan to sow confusion and misdirect the Space Wolves.

Knowing that Magnus could be tracked by Russ' hypocritical Rune Priests via the Crimson King's blood coating _Mjalnar_ , Ahriman formulated a plan which the primarch readily agreed to. The Legion flagship _Photep_ would travel to Akkad with a small but powerful escort, appearing to flee in desperation to the Thousand Sons' most valued world in the Hegemony. Aboard _Photep_ a greater daemon was summoned, its conscience made subservient to the primarch's will. The daemon housed a majority of Magnus' soul, making it appear to any who searched for the Fifteenth Primarch in the Great Ocean that he was in orbit over Akkad.

In truth, Ahriman's father was aboard the _Ankhtowe_ which had joined Fulgrim's armada not long after the exodus from Prospero to swear loyalty to the War Commander and his cause. As the majority of the Legion's remnant readied to prosecute the war in the Phoenician's name, Ahriman and several hundred legionnaires mustered here.

Footsteps thudded from behind but Ahriman knew who it would be.

"They are here, brother."

Ahriman turned, seeing Ankhu Anen standing before him. The Guardian of the Great Library had his helm off, stern Prosperine features weathered by a long life of endless war. Ahriman remembered dragging his old friend from the rubble of the Great Library in Tizca. Anen felt he should have died that day, but Ahriman and Magnus had more planned for him.

"How many have come?"

"From what we can tell, all of them, spearheaded by _Hrafnkel_."

Ahriman exhaled, a soft smile creasing his features. Another more sombre thought struck him.

"How much were you able to preserve, Ankhu?"

"Seventy-nine percent; if given another week I could save it all."

"That is good. When this war ends, regardless who wins or loses, we will have salvaged some knowledge. Much will be lost, never to be recovered, but at least some can be passed on to future generations." Ahriman sighed, all the burdens that had been laid onto his shoulders coalescing, threatening to overwhelm but he snuffed it, pushed it down back under control. "It is our duty to humanity."

Ahriman mag-locked his bolter to his flank, rose, and nodded.

"Alert the fleet and our brothers. Let us give our cousins a warm welcome."

* * *

 **Crossroads of Truth**

The _Pride of Chemos_ , formerly known as the _Pride of the Emperor_ , was an exquisite ship of breath taking beauty. This could not be denied. The exterior of the _Pride_ , despite being a ship of war for nearly two centuries, was carefully maintained and repaired, showing to the void a flagship of strength with an air of dominance. The interior was even more so. Long hallways of gilded gold were covered in purple drapery with Millennial and company designations. Where plaques and statues of the Emperor's Aquila once resided in the flagships' display crevices now only the Phoenix of Chemos stood in its place. Artwork, much of the new ones glorifying the War Commander and the other rebel primarchs, covered many intersections. He solemnly walked past canvases of Manus, Alpharius, and the others who threw in their lot with the self-proclaimed War Commander.

Magnus walked to his brother's chambers, and thought of the events that led him to this. Abandoning Prospero to the Wolves, losing ten thousand of his sons, and fleeing to Fulgrim. The destruction of Prospero was only a little over three months ago but Magnus felt aged in ways he never had before. Soul-weary and worn, he felt like an empty shell compared to what he used to be. His purpose and goal were forever gone, burned away under Fenrisian guns. Unlike the other rebel primarchs, he did not join Fulgrim out of his own volition. Misguided faith drove Lorgar, brotherly love drove Ferrus, a skewed view of justice drove Konrad, but nothing drove Magnus willingly to the Phoenician's side. Desperation forced him to do so.

Desperation forced many things.

At the intersection that led to Fulgrim's chambers, a squad of the Phoenix Guard stood vigil. The sergeant in command stepped forward, halting his progression.

"Lord Magnus, what is your business here?"

Magnus turned his eye to the legionnaire. "I will speak to my brother."

The legionnaire stiffened at the commanding tone. "The War Commander is currently preoccupied. We will inform you when-" the Son of Fulgrim's words choke off as his throat constricted. Gauntleted hands reached for his throat.

"I was not asking for permission," the Crimson King said, hand raised and eye glowing with eldritch azure power.

The other Sons readied their power spears but a glancing wave from Magnus saw the other nine thrown against the wall, pearled marble cracking under the impact. They struggled but were held in place by telekinetic force. The sergeant, despite choking, reached for the bolt pistol mag-locked to his waist. Magnus stepped forward, putting a large red hand on the Mark IV helm.

"Sleep," he muttered and the legionnaire fell to the ground, knocked into unconsciousness for hours. Magnus moved past them, knowing that the Guards were calling for reinforcements, but it would take time.

Moving further along the corridor, he saw four more squads of Fulgrim's protectors standing near their primarch's chambers, arrayed in a combat formation.

"Halt in the name of the Phoenician!" yelled the captain on duty.

Magnus reached at his waist, grabbing the Prosperine combat staff, made of the now extinct dunewood. Twisting it allowed the staff to extend, matching his preferred height. The dunewood was thick and durable, used principally as a training staff, but it would suit his needs quite well here. After all, he was not here to kill, but to talk.

The purple-and-gold Astartes unleashed their assembled weaponry. Bolter fire and las energy were fired but wasted upon Magnus' kine shield. At a command over the private vox channel, the Phoenix Guards dropped their rifles, unsheathing swords, levelling spears and raising shields.

"Cyclops, stop now!" yelled the captain. "This is your last warning!"

"I've always hated that name."

Tapping into the Great Ocean, allowing its rich vibrant power to flood his veins, Magnus the Red, Crimson King of Prospero, Primarch of the Thousand Sons, rushed forward, aetheric energy working in tandem alongside an Emperor-designed physiology making him blindingly fast to the Chemosian Space Marines.

The Phoenix Guard, elite veterans all, chosen for their skills and unflinchingly loyalty to their gene-sire, were naught but flailing children to him.

Barely a minute passed and all forty legionnaires were incapacitated, either frozen to the wall or ground, shrouded in warp energy, or having their limbs broken and bodies made immobile. None would die and all would recover but now they would not interfere with the confrontation that must happen.

Pushing open the doors, he strode in. Fulgrim's personal chambers were filled with war-trophies, Legion livery, and countless blades upon one wall. Fulgrim was sitting in a primarch-sized armchair, wearing a gold rimmed dark purple robe. His brother's platinum white hair was being combed by a servant girl, while another refilled his drinking glass and the last servant fetching tome after tome of books to set beside the lord of the III. The servants, clearly afraid as they undoubtedly heard Magnus' arrival, now visibly paled and gulped at his entrance, backing away but froze as Fulgrim raised a hand.

"Brother," Fulgrim said calmly, "why have you disturbed my evening."

Magnus was a bit taken aback, eye catching the half dozen opened tomes, a pile of data-slates on the floor. He did not expect that. "Reading?"

"Why, of course. I must prepare myself to be a better emperor than father. Treatises, biographies, and history texts and more are awash with information. Much of it is dull, most I already know, but every little fragment of new information I learn will reflect in the prosperity of my Imperium. You of all should value the acquisition of knowledge."

"You think you know more than father? He who has lived tens of millennia."

"Father knows more than me, this I will not debate, but how one uses that knowledge will differentiate us. When the war is won, history will show my reign as the superior successor to a system inherently flawed." Fulgrim sipped his wine. Magnus could smell it from here: Chemosian Perfection. "Now," said the War Commander as he set down the chalice, "Why have you come?"

"The Burning of Prospero. It was you. It was you who sent the message to Leman to raze my world, my people."

Fulgrim grimaced, marring his perfect features for a moment. "You are correct."

"You admit it?" Magnus' anger, which he had funnelled and tempered in the days since learning the truth, soared at the admittance.

"Let me clarify," spoke the Phoenician, "the Emperor had already ordered your arrest. Your refusal to abide by the Edict of Nikaea and the psychic assault on Terra assured that. Lorgar intercepted the message as it travelled the warp and modified it per my wishes."

Lorgar? He had not known that. "But why?"

Fulgrim rose, the three servants falling to their knees with heads bowed, and walked to his crimson skinned brother. "In the years since Nikaea, the Fifteenth Legion has not abided by the Emperor's command. The guidelines and restrictions in the form of the Librarian Compromise were for all intents and purposes ignored."

Magnus said nothing, for it was true.

"This blatant defiance of His command could not be tolerated. Already many on the Council of Terra," Fulgrim sneered at the Council's mention, "called for your arrest. But father waited, for what reason no one but Him knows. Perhaps He thought you would learn the error of your ways." Fulgrim smirked at that. "Alas Magnus, you used abilities many name sorcery to intrude on father, causing mass hysteria and death on Terra in psychic backlash as a result. From then on, you made yourself an enemy to the Golden Throne."

"I tried to warn Him about you! I saw the tides of the Great Ocean shift, hinting at the horrors soon to be committed and the monster you become. It was my duty as a loyal son to warn Him."

Fulgrim shrugged. "Some call me monster, others saviour. It really depends on where one is looking. The same can be applied to you. Are you the monster many view, the sorcerer-king who dabbles in matters better left alone or are you the herald of a new age, whose insight and wisdom could guide the species to greatness? Think on that before you label me."

Magnus clenched and unclenched his fists, the itch to draw from the Great Ocean was there but he suppressed it.

"I applaud you for trying to be dutiful, but it merely dug your own grave deeper. You signed your own death warrant that day, brother. Your arrest could have easily turned into a sanctioned execution. Even if our father wanted you brought before Him in chains, I am not sure Russ would have allowed you to reach Terra alive. He has become quite comfortable in his role as Executioner."

"Then why intercept and change the message, why make the Wolves butcher my world?"

"Many reasons. From my perspective you were a loyal son, a threat, and if I could manipulate events to have two Loyal Legions clash with one another and cause their mutual extinction then it would benefit my position. Escaping your homeworld with a third of your Legion was impressive, as was the scattering of them to sow confusion among the Wolves. I knew that if you or any of your sons survived they would join me. It was the only path left to them."

Magnus wanted to deny it but knew he couldn't. If they had remained alone the Thousand Sons would have either died a lonesome death, hunted down by the Sixth Legion, or exiled to the farthest reaches of the galaxy, hated and distrusted by both sides, their dreams and hopes for humanity squandered in the cold void. Better to have chosen a side, even if it was not the one he preferred. Fulgrim saw the doubt, saw the reservation and attacked it with logic.

"How many worlds are associated with the Prosperine Hegemony?"

Magnus blinked at the odd question. "Thirty-seven. Why?"

"Thirty-seven worlds and how many billions live on them?"

"I do not know. Many," he said.

Fulgrim nodded. "You may not want to fight for me, brother, but at the very least fight for them, those who you swore to protect. Many will not survive, either sacrificed as bait or caught in the crossfire of war, but some will endure and become the stronger for it. Think of all the libraries, all that knowledge, that would be destroyed in wanton hate and misunderstanding if left open to attack. The Emperor will never forgive nor forget your misdeeds, and joining my fleets after Prospero's burning will be seen as treachery. You know this, brother. You know that no matter what you choose to do there will be pain and suffering." Fulgrim rested his hand on Magnus's arm. The touch allowed Magnus to see the great favour Fulgrim had in the Immaterium, the power that even now seeped into the Third Primarch.

"I… I don't know what to do anymore."

Fulgrim patted him lightly, those purple eyes so prideful, so arrogant, but also so accepting.

"Do not fret, Magnus. When the war is over and I am crowned emperor, we can rebuild and relearn all that was lost. In my Imperium no knowledge will be sequestered nor quarantined. Knowledge is power and we will be akin to gods in our understanding of the universe."

Fulgrim stepped back. "Will you join me in this war? Will you cast off your doubt and embrace the potential I see within you?"

Magnus did not have to think long. As his knee hit the floor in submission he knew that there was no turning back now. For better or for worse, he was a rebel, a traitor to the Emperor.

"I will join you, Fulgrim, and swear to do all within my power to see you sit upon the Golden Throne. I do this for Mankind, to prevent another age of darkness."

Magnus breathed deeply, feeling the Great Ocean morphing at his intent. Hated, scolded, limited, all applied to him under the Emperor. Under his brother there was a chance of saving humanity, of preserving knowledge of all kinds to better Mankind's understanding. It grated against his better judgment, but Magnus knew it was the only true path left to him. From here onwards there could be no doubt, no remorse, no pity, only commitment to the cause he was thrust into.

"Hail my War Commander. Hail Fulgrim."

* * *

 **King of Wolves**

From the cold void, a fleet of black coloured ships emerged from the Gelan System's primary Mandeville point. Twenty-two warships of the Eight Legion, carrying five companies of Night Lord legionnaires and several Army regiments, activated their plasma engines and began their journey to Bardo, an inhabited world of four billion that still declared loyalty to the Emperor.

This particular splinter fleet of the VIII had terrorised a half-dozen systems already, world-murdering one and forcing the others to submit to the War Commander. Hours passed as the sons of Curze neared. The Bardo PDF consisted of two million soldiers and a defence fleet of three destroyers and four frigates. They wouldn't last more than a day before being destroyed.

Nyambi, Bardo's sole moon, was a ruin, hollowed out by an ancient pre-Imperial empire for its vast ore deposits. Large mines led deep into the moon's interior, gaping crater-holes open to the void. As the traitor fleet began to pass, they expected there to be nothing within the moon other than scavengers and a handful of nomadic clans.

It was exactly what Leman Russ wanted them to think. He stared at the primary view-screen, watching the traitor ships move closer to the loyalist world. Bardo's defence fleet, as per orders, left their orbital positions to meet them. As the traitors soared over Nyambi, Russ spoke for the first time in hours.

"Begin the attack."

Across Nyambi's surface in several mining craters, kill-ships of the Rout went from the almost undetectable passive power to active, engines flaring with power, and weapons' machine-spirits locked onto the Night Lord fleet, calculating trajectories. Macro-cannon shells, lance fire, and wave after wave of torpedoes were fired.

The Night Lords, though blindsided, were not incompetents. They were Space Marines after all. Void-shields had been raised since emerging from the Empyrean, experienced crews ready for battle, but that could only do so much against a Fenrisian ambush.

Six Night Lord vessels were destroyed in the first minutes of the engagement. The others, unknowing of the numbers they faced, began to redline their plasma engines to escape but the Bardo defence fleet intercepted them, suffering losses but enclosing the traitors. From the man-made craters of Nyambi rose the _Hrafnkel_ and its escorts. Battle-barges, battleships, carriers, cruisers of all types, destroyers and frigates exited Nyambi's thin atmosphere, their flanks scarred and pitted after years continuously fighting the Traitor Legions. The Howling, the _Vlka Fenryka_ 's campaign against the Arch-Traitor had continued since Akkad, now over four years ago. Russ knew he had hurt the enemy, that he had bled them dearly, but knew it could not last forever.

The primarch stood upon the raised dais on _Hrafnkel_ 's bridge, his Wolf Guard waiting patiently. The ship kaerls worked at their stations, following through on pre-ordained orders and predicted scenarios.

Another traitor vessel exploded from within, its reactor reaching meltdown status under the Rout's barrage. Already fourteen traitor warships were destroyed or crippled beyond recovery, though Russ winced seeing more damage landed on his fleet, especially a frigate and two heavy cruisers being killed in turn by the Nostramans. The Night Lord capital ship, a battleship called _Rend Sorrow_ , was Russ' target. Aboard it would be vital data needed to continue prosecuting the Howling in this sector. Fleet and Army deployments, supply lines and caches, and estimated Astartes contingents in the nearby sub-sectors.

As the _Hrafnkel_ entered the battlefield proper, enemy torpedoes and fighter-bombers scathed the Gloriana's void-shields but could do little more. They were nothing more than gnats buzzing around an alpha wolf on the hunt. A strike cruiser, its engines crippled but guns still thundering, impeded the flagship's way.

"Murder it," the primarch spoke calmly and the shipmaster kaerl complied, relaying orders to weapon crew-chiefs who in turned bellowed at their subordinates. Macro-cannons realigned their aim forward, lance cannons thrummed with power, the flagship's handful of powerful but short-range plasma cannons powering up, energy crackling along _Hrafnkel_ 's bow, and torpedoes were loaded into their tubes by serfs monitored by kaerl overseers. The VIII strike cruiser saw the intent in the Wolves' flagship and unleashed its fury but it was a ripperfish lashing out against a kraken.

The gunnery crews promptly executed the primarch's orders, their training and coordination already highly fine-tuned during the Great Crusade had only become razor edge during the Heresy. Macro-cannon shells and torpedoes were launched against the traitors' void-shields. The brute power overloaded local shield reactors, lance cannon fire etching across the weakened shield, causing an overload that forced void-reactors to shut down and cycle through its power lest they explode. More macro-shells, lance fire and torpedoes slammed into the metal hull of the strike cruiser. Secondary explosions followed, air venting into the void, tiny figures trailing the decompression that Russ knew to be mortal crew members being pulled into the cold embrace of space.

"Plasma cannons charged, my king," spoke the shipmaster.

"Fire."

Plasma cannons, undeniably one of the most powerful weapons in Mankind's arsenal, especially those on Imperial capital ships, unleashed their blue-white supercharged energy. Adamantium and plasteel melted under the extreme heat, weakening the strike cruiser's core. The _Hrafnkel_ was only a hundred kilometres away at this point, incredibly short distance for void warfare, and within seconds impacted the strike cruiser, splitting it in two.

The rending of metal was felt on the bridge as a light vibration similar to the thrumming of engines and was easy to ignore. The Night Lord vessel, now forcefully divided into two, began to explode as systems failed and reactors reached critical.

"Mark another ship-kill in the Hall of Victory." A leather masked kaerl nodded, leaving the bridge to las-etch the kill onto the Hall's plasteel wall of ships destroyed by the _Hrafnkel_. Russ looked at the _skjald_ , who was to bear witness to the events on the bridge. "Enemy ship's name: _Casaracht_. Remember its death." The _skjald_ bowed low, repeating the name and how the Night Lord strike cruiser arrived to its deserved death.

Storming through the debris field it created, the VI flagship neared the _Rend Sorrow_.

"Shipmaster, you know what to do. Bjorn, it's time to wet our blades with the blood of traitors."

Russ left the bridge, accompanied by the Wolf Guard, and made way to the nearest boarding tube. He had done this hundreds of times since swearing fealty to the Emperor so long ago but it still felt strange to do so without Freki and Geri, dead by the Sorcerer-King's hands on Prospero. Their loss pained him, but they had received a proper burial. After entering and locking into place, the _Hrafnkel_ changed course to allow its broadside of boarding torpedoes to be launched.

The primarch knew dozens of others similar boarding parties sailed through the space between the two ships. Over the vox, he could hear of status reports and that three boarding torpedoes were destroyed by the _Sorrow_ 's las-clusters.

"Impact imminent," cut in the torpedo's machine-spirit, "Five… four… three… two… one, impact." As the word was spoken the torpedo lodged itself onto the battleship, shearing through the hull with powerful las-cutters and metal-shredders.

Worming through the outer hull layer into the decks took only seconds. After pressurising, the thick doors slid open and Russ emerged first, sons following. The lighting was dim, purple and red light prevalent but it was more than enough for a Wolf's genhanced eyes. They could operate in total darkness, using a Fenrisian Space Marine's powerful senses of smell and hearing to complement their vision. From their position, the main bridge would be several decks up and two forward. Russ began running, knowing the others would follow.

The first group of resistance the Wolves encountered were mortal crewmembers, unarmed but for an officer. Their gore drenched the darkened hallway. The next and the one after suffered similar fates, but the fourth turned out to a platoon of heavily armed and armoured Nightsworn soldiers.

Autogun and flechette shotgun rounds pinged off power armour but did little more before _Mjalnar_ 's powered blade cut through, blood hissing from contact with the energy field. Another platoon was approaching but stopped at the site of what would befall them. For all their professing of mastering terror and its methods, the Nostraman soldiers fled at the sight of the Wolf King slaughtering their comrades, blood and entrails mingling with Russ' honey blond mane. Barring his canines, Russ roared as he charged the second platoon, killing those frozen with terror and hunting down those that fled. At an intersection he caught the last one, hand enfolding a sweat-covered head.

Amidst the screams, Russ could smell something reek from the mortal that was sour and not normal waste. Ripping open the man's tunic he saw the symbol of Hel over his heart, an eight-pointed star. Around the tattoo, the skin wrinkled as if worms moved underneath it. The man was muttering.

"Please… give me power, give me strength… I'll do anything, I'll give anything!" the man cried uncontrollably, pissing his combat trousers, the yellow liquid dripping to the floor. The man's dark eyes began to change colour and shape, the worming effect spreading across his chest.

"Maleficarum," Russ snarled, crushing the head like a rotten fruit. He spat on the corpse as Bjorn and the others joined him. Together they made way to the bridge. Continuing onward, more and more of the _Vlka Fenryka_ joined them.

As they neared the bridge the Wolves of Fenris met the Lords of Nostramo.

Barricaded behind slabs of ceramite and storm shields, the traitor legionnaires opened fire, cutting down several of his sons, but Russ shrugged through the bolter fire. Jumping, he raised his sword. Coming down he swept the sword in a wide arc, cutting through armour with ease. Warriors of the Rout reached the barricade and the melee began in earnest.

A Nostraman legionnaire raised a bolt pistol, but a quick swipe with _Mjalnar_ cut the gun in half, igniting its ammunition, leaving the traitor's hand a ruin of metal and flesh. Moving in, Russ impaled the traitor, killing him instantly. Moving quickly, the primarch killed dozens more within seconds. He was the Emperor's anger made manifest, His Executioner to those that would seek to threaten Unity. He did not embrace it with relish for he was not a mindless savage but rather with determination to see duty done.

Before the bridge doors, three Night Lords stepped forward, each carrying a staff and wearing crystalline psy-hoods. The crystals flared with aether power as they drew upon the warp's corrupting magicks. Russ rushed to meet them, knowing he had to kill them before they drew too deeply on their sorcery. One Night Lord Librarian was killed, a bolt hole smoking from his helm, blood and brain matter splattered against the bridge doors. Another fell to a well-thrown power axe.

The third aimed his staff and maleficarum flooded out towards Russ. The aether magick struck him, pain enveloping him but it did not stop him, only slowed. As the battle raged around him, sons of two demigods fighting and dying, Russ trudged to the Librarian. Even with wearing full battle-plate, Russ could see the surprise in the legionnaire's stance. Maleficarum surrounded him, pained him as it bit into his skin, leaving deep wounding gouges. Sweat poured down Russ' face in a torrent as he advanced. He coughed, tasting the rich coppery flavour of enriched blood.

The traitor Librarian stepped steadily backward to maintain distance with the primarch until he contacted the bridge doors. Russ continued the advance, his every nerve afire and skin blackening under Hel's corrupting touch. Approaching, the primarch reached out and grabbed the Librarian by the throat, lifting him into the air.

"How?" the Nostraman gurgled.

"I've fought Magnus the Red and emerged victorious," Russ spat, "You are nothing more than a nuisance compared to that." Russ crushed the Librarian's trachea and with a violent jerk he snapped the legionnaire's neck with a satisfying crunch.

A Rune and Wolf Priest approached him, offering their assistance to heal but Russ gestured them to help other Rout Astartes who lay across the floor, their life-thread thinned and wavering. Some's would be cut before the day ended. He would heal painfully but he trusted in his father's gene-craft to see him through the pain and wounds.

Squads broke into the bridge while Russ waited outside it, breathing heavily, his nostrils taking in the ozone of power weapons, the acrid fyceline smell of bolter fire and the meat-stink of corpses.

"My king?" spoke _Hrafnkel_ 's shipmaster via the vox-bead in the primarch's ear. The channel hissed with static.

"What?"

"My king, a traitor fleet has emerged from the Mandeville point."

"Is it him? Is _he_ here?"

"Aye, my king, Angron is here."

Russ closed his eyes.

"How many did he bring with him?"

"More keep emerging from the Empyrean, but so far the number stands at two hundred warships of various classes, carrying anywhere from twenty to thirty thousand Space Marines onboard."

Russ hawked a wad of blood onto the deck. Damn Nucerian. The Rout's Howling had been effective, perhaps too effective in its waging. The VI had proved itself a dangerous foe on the flanks of the War Commanders forces, causing the Arch-Traitor to despatch the Gladiator King and his World Eaters to contain and defeat the Sixth Legion. And Russ hated to admit it, but just six months after Angron taking command of the traitor armies fighting against the _Vlka Fenryka_ it was becoming more and more obvious that the noose around the Rout's neck was tightening. System after system fell to the traitors. Avenues of supply, of escape, became closed off to the Wolves of Fenris. Squadrons of Sixth Legion warships were destroyed with worryingly regularity. The Wolves, running low on supplies, warriors, their warships in desperate need of dedicated maintenance and repair, were being forced ever closer to the Ruinstorm that encircled Ultramar. The Wolves were being penned in, being led to the slaughter and no matter how much they bit and thrashed at the prodding only so much could be done in the face of such numbers and the Twelfth Primarch's exemplary mastery of war.

Russ sighed, licking his canines in thought. After some contemplation, he responded.

"Ready the fleet for departure. We will rendezvous with Sturgard Joriksson in Nadessa."

"By your command," the link ended, and Russ rose, looking into the bridge where Nightsworn and Night Lord corpses littered about, alongside a few of his get. Iron Priests were prying the desired data from the _Sorrow_ 's machine-spirit. Moments passed before they grinned in success.

The primarch led the boarding parties to the battleship's primary hangar bay where other squads of Wolves had secured. From there, dropships carried them back to the _Hrafnkel_. As Russ entered his flagship, the _Sorrow_ suffered cataclysmic failure across several systems, a parting gift from the Iron Priests, and exploded as the Rout warships accelerated away from Angron's fleet.

Five ships of the Rout lagged behind, heavily damaged during the engagement with the Night Lords. Three were able to evacuate most of their legionnaires and highly trained mortals, but two were not close enough to the fleet's withdrawal vectors. The one hundred and thirteen legionnaires and several thousand valued kaerls were writ off as dead.

As the _Hrafnkel_ readied its warp engine, the primarch saw those five Rout warships, plus the surviving Bardo defence vessels, become destroyed under the coordinated and highly disciplined fire of World Eater gunners.

Soon, Russ thought, there would be a confrontation between Angron and him. If the _Vlka Fenryka_ was to soon die, it would die standing defiant against the traitors. The _Hrafnkel_ 's hull groaned as a tear in real-space opened to the Immaterium and the VI flagship and its surviving battered escorts were sucked in, off to another star system, to another battle.

* * *

 **Last Day**

Velga burned. Pillars of thick black smoke lifted into the air across the world from ransacked cities and compromised promethium fields. The last standing loyalist city on Velga burned as its reserve's underground bunker had been penetrated by orbital-to-surface missiles weeks ago and still it burned. Any chance of a mass armoured counter-attack disappeared after that. Captain Cazzimus watched as Dornatus, capital of Velga, become pummelled by artillery fire. The city named in the primarch's name was once beautiful but now was an empty, rubble strewn shell.

It was only fitting, he thought, that the world he had defended from a xenos invasion two decades ago would call for aid yet again. Was it… chance, or fate, that brought him back? Regardless, he had returned to Velga with his 114th Company of the Imperial Fists, ready to defend it.

He stood upon the roof of his command post, what had once been in better times the Velgan Hall of Imperial Order and Law. His helm's autosenses magnified to show him the frontline. Barely a hundred metres outside the city were the trenches, manned by the remnants of the Velgan Planetary Defence Force, alongside a scattering of Army regiments. Civilians, the few that survived, acted as an emergency reserve alongside the Arbites who had been repurposed. Two of his last Astartes squads acted as shock troops to aid wherever the enemy was threatening to overrun.

The traitors outside Dornatus numbered nearly a hundred thousand, primarily made up of Traitor Army units but the most serious threats were the three companies of World Eaters directing the siege. Traditionally not known for their siege work, the sons of Angron were surprising Cazzimus with their adaptability and tenacity.

Arriving four months ago, Cazzimus was able to field just over a hundred Imperial Fists, now only thirty-one remained. The World Eaters seemed patient enough to whittle away at the Imperial-held city, allowing their Army soldiers to bleed and die while the traitor legionnaires suffered few losses.

But that was to end today. He knew it, he _felt_ it. Today was the day Dorantus fell and all of Velga became occupied by the traitors. Cazzimus descended to the bottom floor of the building, passing frescoes of his gene-sire. The last one was a favourite. Dorn stood resplendent, strong and unbreakable, sword held high as he led legionnaires to battle. Cazzimus touched the fresco reverently.

"Father, lend me strength." He bowed his head, seemingly in prayer; a word associated with archaic bygone eras but seemed more than fitting now. Moments passed, the silence only broken by the occasional rumble of artillery. Several minutes later the rumble became a roar and the Imperial Fist captain could feel the vibration in the wall.

"Sir," spoke his equerry, Sergeant Cassier. "The traitors have begun a mass barrage city-wide. I believe they'll launch their final attack soon."

Cazzimus nodded, turning to his command squad and motioned for them to follow. Moments later, they exited the building and made to his forward command post closer to the frontlines. Dornatus would fall today, it was inevitable, but he would ensure the traitors paid the butcher's bill to secure their victory. Arriving to the post, Astartes and mortal troopers alike saluted, though he could see that they all knew the inevitability that was fast approaching.

The artillery fire which had only increased in its intensity and spread out across the city entire the past half-hour was a source of constant thunderous background noise. Cazzimus checked the city's defences one last time on his data-slate, the lack of adequate supplies and manpower more palpable than ever.

"Sir," came the Army commander over the vox, "The enemy approaches."

Cazzimus clicked affirmation, and advanced to the frontlines, his squad following. _Today is the day it ends,_ he thought. _The Emperor protects._

* * *

 **Knowledge is Power, Guard it Well**

He awoke to silence. Well that was not quite true, as the humming of the ship's engines were ever-present, even here deep within the Gloriana-class warship he could hear and feel them. Outside the brig cell stood two guards, pitch-black armour with white trim and Legion sigil. They were standard legionnaires, armed with bolter and blade but nothing more. The cell block held twenty figures, all transhuman and all brothers, each who were also deafened and muted to true sensations.

The Materium was awash with sounds, but it was but a whimper to the Great Ocean. Months of being unable to tap into it due to his rightfully cautious captors had caused an almost indiscernible itch beneath the skin. Psy-dampeners cut them off from the warp, and it made the days bland and monotonous, a full half of his mind and body were dull.

"You know," began Menkaura, "if I knew surrendering on my own free will would have led to this, I would have ignored orders. Would have hijacked a frigate and gone off to war."

"For whom?" Arvida chided jokingly. "Magnus?"

The other Corvidae Space Marine snorted. "You know what I've seen. We cannot allow the Cyclops nor Fulgrim to win. It would be the death of Mankind as we know it."

Arvida nodded at the truth of it. A year had passed since Prospero's blood-soaked execution. Arvida, Menkaura, and over three hundred other scions of the Crimson King had been on the Library World of Lavand, the newest member of the Hegemony. Drawn from several different Fellowships and Cults, though predominantly of the Corvidae and Fourth Fellowship, they were to act as witnesses to the world's swearing of oaths to Magnus, the Prosperine Hegemony, and reaffirmation of loyalty to the Imperium as a whole.

Then came the violent, turbulent wave that swept through the Immaterium, bringing with it such pain, grief and loss that all the Thousand Sons on Lavand felt it, even those without psychic powers. Captain Menes Kalliston, worried what had happened to the Legion's homeworld, had gathered the three hundred and sixty-four Astartes on the Library World and set off to search for answers.

Their small flotilla, numbering only a dozen warships, made way to Prospero but warp storms slowed their progress to a standstill. Exiting the Empyrean in the Haja System, only a few weeks distance from the homeworld, they had come into contact with a Thousand Son warship under the command of a Sergeant Tophon. Tophon spoke of the Burning, the Wolves coming to Prospero, and the Crimson King swearing allegiance to Fulgrim who had been elevated to War Commander by several other rebel primarchs. Tophon demanded they rendezvous with the primarch and receive new orders.

Kalliston was wary, unsure of what to do. Menkaura promptly solved that for him. The greatest student and a friend of Ahzek Ahriman, suffered a foreboding vision that spoke of the horrors Magnus embraced and used without thought of consequence. His defiance of the Nikaean Edict and its reasonable Compromise showed their father cared little for the Emperor's commands. That, coupled with Kalliston using his Athanaean ability to scour Tophon mind and saw the truth of the matter, convinced them of what to do. The Wolves may have been unleashed against Prospero, but their murderous violence was warranted. Magnus, the too proud demigod who arrogantly thought he knew better than the Master of Mankind, had delved too deep in the Great Ocean, ignoring the predators that lurked there. His deals, his mere association with them, had damned him in the Emperor's eyes, and in theirs. It did not matter if the psychic assault on the Imperial Palace was intentional or not, it had done incalculable damage to Terra and could and had been viewed as an attack on the Emperor Himself. Such things could not go unpunished.

Killing Tophon and his Magnus-loyal squad of legionnaires took little effort. The purge in their ranks that followed took considerable more. Fifty-seven had proven themselves loyal to their gene-sire over Him, and thus were killed, quickly, quietly, mercifully, their bodies ejected into the void after their gene-seed had been harvested. Before they were able to depart the Haja System, a fleet had appeared practically from no where, bearing the white raven on black of the XIX. Kalliston demanded who Corax fought for and when the _Shadow of the Emperor_ clarified their Legion's allegiance, the just over three hundred Emperor-loyal Thousand Sons willingly surrendered to the Lord of Ravens.

That was many months ago and they had been interned since. Interactions, more akin to interrogations, were few and far between but the Raven Guard Librarians searched deeply for any hint of lies or disloyalty. Isolated from the greater whole, only seeing the faces of the other nineteen locked in the cell block, Arvida was sure to go mad with boredom and the desire to do something as the war continued. He didn't even know if the loyalists were winning or if the traitors were. Or had the war stalled to a stalemate? Or was it over, and the Emperor emerged victorious? Or was Fulgrim even now sitting on the Golden Throne? It was impossible to tell as their captors refused to speak of it.

So they sat in their cells, exercising what little they could in the confined space, eating off weak plastek slabs containing thin gruel and a cracking ceramic mug holding stale water were the only nourishment allotted to them, which led to his body losing some of its musculature but thankfully his physiology prevented a serious or permanent loss.

Arvida opened his mouth, about to speak to Menkaura, when the block door audibly clicked, and the door swung inwards. The guards stiffened to attention. What entered could only be described as a shadowed demigod bearing a face coloured pallid white. Corvus Corax, wearing simple black and white robes with a cloak made of raven feathers descending from his neck to near the floor, looked at the twenty imprisoned legionnaires. His dark gaze swept over each and every one of them. Despite being imprisoned for nearly a year, they had never seen the Nineteenth Primarch, only his sons. Being in the presence of a primarch was intoxicating, Arvida's hearts were beating faster, mouth going dry and a bead of sweat was forming at the base of his neck.

Corax's intense scrutiny ended. "Do it," he said calmly.

The bolts on the cell doors magnetically unlatched, swinging open minutely. The Liberator turned to go but Arvida could not help himself, the question burned in his mind.

"My lord, why?"

Corax paused before turning back and looking at him again.

"I know you all to be loyal to my father and His Imperium. It is time to prove that in not just words but deeds, too. No longer are you to be caged but free, you will fight alongside my Legion as we continue our strikes against the Arch-Traitor. And together, we will stop the death of Unity."

* * *

 **Two-Fates**

They escorted him in chains down to the Imperial Dungeons. The clinking of his bonds, the booming of armoured boots on marble flooring, and the hum of power armour and weapons echoed in the long hallways and corridors. Since being discovered by the Imperial Fists on _Daedalus_ days ago, they had locked him in isolation, and when the Fists reached Terran orbit, the Legio Custodes took over his security and handling, swearing the legionnaires to secrecy by order of Rogal Dorn and the Emperor.

Over a hundred of the Emperor's elite watched him, Guardian-Spears aimed at his centre of mass, wary of any sudden or threatening movements. They were being overly cautious, but this he did not blame them.

Hours and hours of walking through empty passageways, likely cordoned off from any prying eyes, doubtlessly with reinforcements mirroring their progress, waiting to be called if need be.

A long life of patience and planning allowed him to contain the tumultuous emotions that churned within him behind a mask of discipline. After years of undermining the Arch-Traitor from the shadows, he could endure the hours it took to be brought to the audience he had requested. The only thing that haunted him was his brother's look of betrayal.

The large adamantium doors before him were pulled open. The Custodes circled the room, taking positions and watching. A squad escorted him to the centre, chaining him to the floor. They wouldn't stop him, merely delay, but he bore the treatment stoically.

A matching set of doors from across the room opened and three beings entered. Rogal Dorn, Praetorian of Terra, the Unyielding, strode in. The shock white hair, the wintry blue eyes and stony face stared at him critically. In Dorn's eyes, he was a traitor, no ifs and buts. The prisoner's eyes drew to the Praetorian Sword clasped at Dorn's belt, imagining being beheaded by it. It was a possible outcome.

The second he noticed wore midnight black war-plate, hefting a large power maul in his left hand and a legendary Talon in the other. Horus Lupercal, First Found and Warmaster of the Imperium looked down upon him, eyes twinkling with a sense of unease and subtle rage. The Warmaster's blue-green eyes stared down at him like las-cannons. Horus likely wanted him dead, but undoubtedly remembered all the times they had talked in confidence to one another before Fulgrim's Heresy, before Davin.

The third being was by far the smallest in the room but likely the most powerful in ways the rest were not. Malcador the Sigillite walked slowly to the small throne set in between the two primarchs, his body hunched over slightly, pale brown eyes staring down in judgement, the Staff of Terra ablaze with power. He long knew Malcador put on a show of weakness to confuse and misguide enemies, but as the Regent sat in the throne it was clear that the frailness was no longer an act but in fact real.

The two primarchs and the Emperor's most trusted advisor stared down at him. A brief moment passed where only silence reigned before Malcador spoke. He still wielded a voice of command, he noticed.

"Alpharius, Primarch of the Twentieth Legion, you come here today. Why? Do you seek forgiveness for your treachery? Do you wish an execution to purge yourself of crimes and sin?"

He took a deep breath and exhaled, readying to speak.

"I am not Alpharius." It felt odd to add the extra word. "My name is Omegon, twin to Alpharius."

Malcador did not seem surprised, he likely suspected or assumed. Dorn only frowned while Horus cocked his head in thought. None of the Custodes even moved a muscle.

"Explain," Malcador said.

And so Omegon did. Explaining the unification of his homeworld with his twin, how they swapped roles interchangeably and continued to do so when discovered by the Imperium. He talked about the Cabal, though he did avoid telling of Horus' prophesised fall to Chaos and replaced all mention of the Lupercal with Fulgrim.

"Then why come here? Why now?"

"My brother and I have always been of one mind on everything; from unifying our homeworld to eliminating the Cabal. That changed with the war."

"Go on," motioned Malcador.

"Alpharius truly believed that helping Fulgrim win would destroy Chaos in time. It would take centuries, but he believed it would thus saving the galaxy at the cost of humanity. I originally thought it a sound plan, but I began to believe there could be a better way, that we were merely tricked by Chaos in one of their many schemes, that they somehow influenced and corrupted the Cabal. I began to realise that Alpharius was wrong." He had to force those words out, nearly choking him in their meaning.

"What did you do then?" Horus interjected.

"I began to undermine my Legion's operations, prematurely exposing covert operations, subtly shifting resources, and derailing military operations. I had to do so silently and slowly, lest I rouse Alpharius' suspicions. For six and a half years I have fought for the Imperium from the shadows."

"Have you brought proof of this?" demanded Dorn. All the talk of mixed loyalties and subterfuge had greatly irritated the Stone Praetorian.

" _Daedalus_ , my ship currently being held over Saturn, has countless logs detailing my deeds."

"Those can be forged," countered Dorn.

"And they can be proven to be valid given enough time."

"Which could take months," spoke Horus. "We may not have that time. Fulgrim nears Sol with every passing day."

Malcador who had been silent for most of the tale spoke up. "There is a better way to determine the legitimacy of your claims."

All three primarchs looked at Malcador, curious as to what would follow. The Regent's eyes became solid gold, and a sense of agelessness and power added to the Regent's already formidable aura.

All the Custodes instantly went to their knees in salute. Dorn bowed and Horus tilted his head. "Father," the Warmaster said warmly.

The Emperor-controlled Malcador stepped up, no longer appearing frail, and moved to where Omegon was chained.

"My son," spoke the Master of Mankind. "I will see into your mind. I will ascertain what is true or false." The Regent's hands reached toward Omegon's face, grasping it. Even being the smallest of the primarchs he still dwarfed the Regent, and the feeling of aged bony hands clutching his face seemed almost comical. The skin burned pleasantly where the fingers touched.

"Do not resist. It will only cause pain. Show me everything."

* * *

Omegon emptied his bolter into the creature. It was an unknown xenos species that had likely helped guide the Cabal for centuries, if not millennia. It died the same as all the others. He wore black armour, using his real persona, while the true Alpharius cut down several more aliens, the only recognizable one being Eldar.

Astartes swarmed through the chamber from where the Cabal had shown the XX primarchs the false future of a fallen Horus. Alien and human corpses littered about, Omegon frowning at the mortal members of his species that followed the Cabal. No longer would Mankind, whether it be human or transhuman, be manipulated by xenos schemes. That ended today.

"Why?" gurgled an Eldar with a ruined throat, body torn by powered blades and lifeblood pooling around her lithe form. "We had a plan. You agreed to it!"

Alpharius picked the xenos up. "Plans change," and snapped her neck with a soft _crunch_.

The titular primarch of the Twentieth Legion looked at his sibling and nodded, thinking they were of one mind.

 _You're right, brother,_ thought Omegon. _Plans do change._

* * *

"Where did they come from?" demanded Alpharius, gesturing sharply at the hololith where more and more icons bearing the Dark Angel Winged Sword emerged from the Immaterium. Outlying picket squadrons were already engaging the loyalists but were being quickly overwhelmed by the First Legion. At the head of the Calibanite armada was the _Invincible Reason_ , tearing apart a grand cruiser with pinpoint accurate cannon and lance fire with a barrage of torpedoes.

"Where did they come from?" Alpharius asked again, words harshly enunciated. No one spoke, not a single of the Legion's top officers in the star system. Some were aboard _Alpha_ in person but most were present via hololithic projections. Omegon stood against the wall, watching with interest. Alpharius was clearly infuriated, and rightfully so. Nearly half of the Alpha Legion fighting the Lion and his knightly sons in the Arcurean Crusade were located here in the Ghendall System. Unfortunately for the XX, a significant majority of those ships were docked in Ghendall's extensive shipyards undergoing maintenance and resupply. It would take hours for those ships to properly undock and join the Alpha Legion fleet centred on the flagship.

Still no one spoke; to do so would have been wasteful and possibly could anger the primarch to a degree rarely seen. Alpharius was not Ferrus who made a habit of killing sons who he deemed weak, nor was he the purged Eleventh who had ritually sacrificed those who failed, but in that moment Omegon knew if prodded the wrong way, his brother's fury would become murderous.

"This is a disaster," hissed Alpharius, staring at each officer. Captains and Harrowmasters weathered the threatening atmosphere as it coiled around them. The primarch's grip on _Sarrisanata_ tightened but did not strike out at those nearby. Turning back to the continuously updating hololith detailing the encroaching Dark Angels, the Twentieth Primarch looked at in silence for a moment.

"Pech."

"Sire?" spoke the First Captain.

"Prepare the fleet to depart. The outlying squadrons will delay the Lion long enough for us to escape. Their deaths will buy us valuable time."

"And what of the ships still docked?" Pech asked cautiously.

"Leave them. It will be a stinging loss but recoverable. Evacuate as many Astartes and key personnel as you can in the next hour but any unable to board departing ships will be left behind." Alpharius looked at Pech, then at the other assembled Space Marines. "You have your orders."

"As you command," Pech saluted and the others followed suit. As hololith projections winked off one by one, the Astartes present in the room left the chamber to see to their duties, leaving only the twin primarchs alone, the sole source of light coming from the hololith showing the First Primarch and his fleet rapidly defeating the squadrons assailed against him.

Omegon moved to stand beside his twin. "Thoughts?"

"Either someone made a grave mistake and led them here by accident, or we have a turncoat amidst the ranks. Neither bodes well." Omegon grunted agreement. "Four years, brother, _four years_ out here on the fringe playing cat-and-mouse with the Lion, keeping him off balance and occupied. I knew it wouldn't last forever, he is too smart for that, but this could have gone on for another year, maybe two before we ran out of manoeuvring room." He gestured at the flickering hololith. "But this changes everything. In a single day, the Lion will have wiped out nearly a third of our fleet in the Arcurean Sector. This campaign is no longer viable." Alpharius sighed. "We'll disengage and rendezvous with Fulgrim."

"The War Commander won't like that the Dark Angels can now join the wider war."

"We bought him four years of their non-interference. It'll have to be good enough."

Stillness reigned for a moment.

"How were your operations?" Alpharius finally asked, a sense of… hesitancy, forming between them.

"Successful," Omegon began, before going into the general details of his missions that took him across the galaxy. Each operation would lead to a victory for the rebellion. But to counter each success, the black armoured primarch arranged events that would lead to traitor defeats, unbeknownst to all. Tenebrae-Nine-Fifty was destroyed, allowing the loyalist White Scars' cry for help on Chondax to be heard; the mining operations on Hester crippled; the tampering of machinery on the Forge World Sarros which would cause millions of cargo-8s, cargo-12s and Chimeras to be built with nearly undetectable flaws built into the design, causing frequent mechanical breakdowns; and many more, including a dozen assassinations of traitor commanders.

"This war is entering a new stage." Alpharius looked sidelong at Omegon. "A difficult choice was made, but it will be seen through to the end. Fulgrim's Heresy must succeed if Chaos is to be wiped out in several centuries."

Omegon verbalised agreement, watching as Alpharius stormed from the chamber to oversee the withdrawal, preventing what would have been a total catastrophe to merely a grave disaster. As the doors closed shut, Omegon congratulated himself on this battle. Months of planting information, half-truths, and trails led to this. He could not make it obvious in anyway of what he was doing, lest the Lion think it a trap, or worse, Alpharius discovering what was happening. Their bond had become strained these last five years of Heresy, a result of Omegon's true loyalties. He suspected his twin knew what was happening, deep down, but refused to acknowledge it. Soon, Alpharius' love would wither and his twin would come for him and attempt to kill him, but until that time Omegon would do what he could to aid the Throne from the shadows. Everything was going as planned.

He smiled.

* * *

Klaxons rang piercingly as Omegon ordered the _Daedalus_ to rise from the planet's atmosphere and head into deep space. The destroyer was unique, the first in what was supposed to be a squadron of three highly advanced stealth ships that would have made even Raven Guard warships obsolete, but the other two were destroyed by him weeks ago. That act, however, convinced Alpharius that he could no longer be trusted. Even now, Alpha Legion warships scoured the Berantia System, looking for the stealth destroyer. Alpharius was out there, aboard his flagship, with hundreds of warships. But Omegon hid where none should look: deep in the thunderous gaseous layer of Coburne, the system's sole gas giant. The pressure laid against the destroyer was immense, even half a kilometre lower and the ship's hull would be compromised.

Omegon's entire Effrit Stealth Squad, numbering nearly forty, crewed the ship after eliminating its mortal and Alpharius-loyal Space Marine contingent. The primarch sat rigid in the ship's command throne, staring at the various displays, ordering quick course corrections and more to avoid detection. Working with passive systems made it harder to evade the enemy, but it also made it far harder to be detected. After weeks of waiting, knowing the needs of war would see the searching fleet thin its ranks, even if ever so slightly, Omegon had taken the risk to leave Coburne and reach a distance suitable enough for safe entry into the warp. The Mandeville points were too well covered, but a star system was a large, empty space. As long as the _Daedalus_ entered the warp far enough away from a well of gravity, such as a sun or planet, then the journey to Terra would be relatively safe, if not as safe as entering and exiting via a Mandeville point.

"Sire," spoke one Effrit squad member. "The _Alpha_ and several dozen escorts are nearing our position."

"Have they found us?"

"Unknown. It is difficult to tell if they are charging weapons or even locking onto us, sire. The distance is still too great for passive."

"Time until the warp reactor is ready?"

"Thirty seconds."

Omegon breathed a sigh of relief.

His helm's vox crackled.

"Brother, I know you're out there. I can feel you nearby," came Alpharius' voice, ragged with anger and betrayal. Omegon did not respond. "I will find you, one day, somewhere, but I will. I will kill you."

Omegon looked at the view-screen, seeing the countdown to warp reactor activation counting down. As it neared five seconds, Omegon responded. "You are wrong, _brother_. _I_ will find _you_ and make you regret ever betraying father." The warp reactor ignited, tearing a hole in reality. "For the Emperor," he said as the _Daedalus_ entered the hellish waves of the Empyrean.

* * *

The journey to Terra would take months. Omegon had hoped to reach Terra before the Alpha Legion fleet led by Kel Silonius attacked, but knew it was too late for that. It was strange, but he would have to place trust in the abilities of others not his twin. Alpharius was no longer his closest confidant, the one being he could be true with.

No longer. They were now enemies, one for the Throne, the other, no matter what he claimed, for Chaos. The Emperor had made many mistakes, undeniably, but He also held the Mankind's survival at heart and was right about the Ruinous Powers. Where Alpharius saw an attempt to destroy Chaos, Omegon saw it for what it was: a trap laid out by those Fell Gods. He did not know how long the Cabal was compromised, or even if its members knew about it, but it was clear to him, especially once their vision proved falsely hollow. Chaos had manipulated the Cabal, used them like a piece on a regicide board. For Alpharius, eliminating them was tying up a loose end, but for Omegon it was removing a dangerous group of unwilling agents of the Primordial Annihilator.

 _Will they kill me? Will Horus, and Dorn, and Malcador kill me when I come to Terra? After all, the only one who knew my true loyalty was me, not even my Effrit Astartes did until a month ago._

Shrugging, it mattered not. If the Emperor deigned to order his execution, then Omegon would bare his neck willingly. It was all a matter of trust and loyalty. Thinking of such made him look at the black armoured legionnaires scattered among the bridge.

"'From Alpha to Omega, broken the Hydra lies.'"

As one, the legionnaires raised their bolt pistols and laid them against their helm covered temples.

"'From ocean born to ash returned, death to traitors. For the Emperor.'"

"For the Emperor," they chorused before pulling the triggers. The loud bang of bolters echoed and cranial gore covered cogitators, floor and the wall. The deeply hypnotically placed suggestion was a secret part of initiation into Effrit. Alpharius may have taken up his name, title and position on many occasions, and vice versa, but not even the other Twentieth Primarch knew of it, nor did the stealth squad.

Omegon knew the legionnaires to be loyal to him and him alone, but he could not risk it. What if one, after seeing the treacherous split of twins and the consequences it held for the Legion, had a change of heart and wished to re-join the Legion? Or was a secreted agent of Alpharius from the beginning?

Omegon closed his eyes but the smell of death still hung prevalent in the air. It was a necessary act. Easier for the loyalists to trust one being rather than forty. Sighing, he checked the console systems, ensuring everything all were in optimal condition. Satisfied, he returned to the throne, sitting down.

The primarch began to systematically shut down his mind and body, allowing only the most necessary portions to remain active to allow his body to continue functioning. It would appear, both from his perspective and any who looked upon him, that the primarch entered a deep sleep. He would sleep as the _Daedalus_ sailed through the warp towards Sol. Towards absolution.

* * *

The golden warmth faded and Omegon found himself back in the chamber deep beneath the Imperial Palace. The golden-eyed Malcador stepped back, breathing laboured. Dorn and Horus watched on with interest.

"Well?" asked the Praetorian. "Does he speak the truth? Is he loyal?"

"Yes," came the deep intonations of the Regent.

"What is to be done with him?" asked the Warmaster.

"There is a project he would be ideal for. He was surrounded by traitors for over six years, fighting not only them but himself in more ways than one. Through it all, he remained true to Me. Will you accept command of the special project? It will be thankless, your name and deeds will go unmarked, only you and your warriors will know the truth of it. You will likely die forgotten by the Imperium, but it will endure because of you. Do you accept?"

"Yes," Omegon said, meaning it with all his being.

"Excellent. Only one more thing to do before you depart; the potential within must be unlocked." The Emperor-controlled Malcador reached out again but instead of golden warmth it was as hot and piercing as the sun. Omegon screamed, oh how he screamed…

* * *

Weeks later, an unmarked Stormbird descended through the layers of a moon of Saturn, aiming for a landing platform only recently constructed. Eight figures stood on the platform, armoured in steel-grey warplate, edged in scarce gold and crimson. What they lacked in livery they more than made up with an air of power and strength, of unflinchingly loyalty against the all the horrors the galaxy threw at them. On their shoulder-pads, Malcador noted was the sigil of their order: a book pierced by a downturned sword. It also adorned the Aegis-pattern power armour his sole companion in the Stormbird wore.

Though the other spoke not a word on the trip out from the Throneworld, Malcador knew him to be ready for the task at hand. He had been briefed, readied, and his psychic potential inherent in all his kind unlocked by the Emperor's fiery touch. The dropship landed gently, and the ramp lowered. Malcaodor emerged first, leaving the other on the dropship for now. Wearing void-sealed protective gear over his Administratum robes was uncomfortable but bearable.

The eight Space Marines before him knelt as they approached.

"Rise, my friends, rise," he spoke, voice a hoarse whisper.

They did so. Malcador eyed them and nodded in satisfaction. He had personally chosen each Astartes who stood there.

"Are the Neophytes ready?" he asked.

"Yes, Lord Regent," spoke Grand Master Epimetheus, "All that have made it to this point accepted the Gift without issue and are ready to proceed onto the next step."

Malcador nodded. Five thousand boys were selected for their innate power and iron will. Five thousand chosen out of tens of millions of possible candidates. So many were dead, but their sacrifice was not needless for what rose from the blood and pain would be a force to protect Mankind against the Archenemy.

"If you had wanted a status report, my lord, we would have sent one via courier. There was no need for you to travel so far, especially with the Arch-Traitor so near," spoke Grand Master Khyron.

Malcador put on a faint smile, "Oh, but I needed to be here." He gestured to the dropship. "I have brought you your Supreme Grand Master."

Despite centuries of training and practice, Malcador caught only the barest hints of their surprise and pleased attitude from their minds. _Their training has hardened them, so has the Emperor's Gift. Good,_ he thought.

From the Stormbird emerged his companion, who stood only marginally taller than the tallest of the Grand Masters. The armour he wore was similarly bland and bare, only the sigil of the sword pierced book resided.

"Introduce yourself," instructed Malcador.

Omegon looked at the eight Astartes, Grey Knights they were called, their auras awash with aetheric power and armour carved and skin-inked wards. He shared that with them. Inside, the well of psychic power unlocked by the Emperor was an unfamiliar feeling but one he would grow used to as he fought the creatures of the Great Enemy.

Looking at them for a moment, he finally spoke.

"I am Janus."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** After over two months of no updates, Anthology Five is finally here. Apologies for the delay and I hope you all had a Happy Holidays. Now the next chapter will be the World Eaters Index which I hope to start in a couple of weeks or so once RL things calm down a bit. I hope you enjoy this anthology!

Also, Nemris over on DeviantArt has created two more artwork pieces for the Fulgrimian Heresy. The 'Defenders of Terra' and the 'Legacies of Heresy.' They are great. Go check them out!

If you liked the story, be sure to review/comment and follow for more updates.


	34. World Eaters

**World Eaters – Blood and Freedom**

 _Inherited freedom is a ubiquitous lie. Freedom is not something to be doled out to weakling masses, but something to be violently seized, clutched by hands scraped bloody in the attempt. In life you are the peasant or the warrior, the conquered or the conqueror, the slave or the slaver. Don't let others decide for you. Choose for yourself._

 _-Fragment a speech attributed to Primarch Angron_

 **Origins-**

Nuceria was a world long familiar with pain. It had been deeply ingrained into the world's soil, roots and even its very soul. The torment could be felt by sensitive psykers long before the dawn of the Imperium. This agonised heritage can be traced back to the earliest centuries of its colonisation many millennia ago. When human settlers first arrived they found a world rich in resources and fertile, ripe for crops and livestock. These factors encouraged largescale immigration over the next several hundred years that coincided with a substantial native population boon. But as unchecked human greed and wanton destructiveness asserted itself, occurring simultaneously with the onset of the regressive Age of Strife, Nuceria's peaceful equilibrium quickly shattered into warring nations who fought over scraps of valuable land and resources.

Amid the ashes of countless wars rose a new polity: the high-riders. These tech-scavengers and warlords solidified themselves as the new nobility, propping up kingdoms and dictatorships in equal measure planet-wide. Early on the high-riders were benevolent to the populace. Though they ruled with an iron fist, it was considered fair and even-handed, doubtlessly ensuring humanity's survival on Nuceria as daemonic incursions, rogue psykers, and rampant mutations were common occurrences during the Long Night's early years. After centuries of untold sacrifice and heartache, a form of stability was established under high-rider rule. Though many celebrated and cherished, the mood soon soured. Without a foreign enemy to act as a unifying force, social unity began to crumble. Mere generations after stability was secured the defenders evolved into oppressors.

Secured in their position, solidified through wars of survival, the high-rider nobility violently oppressed and exploited the peasant masses, using them as cannon fodder to further their ambitions against rival city-states. To fund lavish lifestyles and selfish warmongering, the aristocracy excessively taxed those beneath them. Many fell too far in debt and were unable to pay, thus sold into slavery alongside any others deemed dissidents to the status quo, ranging from progressive idealists to common criminals.

Wise enough to know of their regimes' fragility, the high-riders constructed imposing gladiatorial arenas, using slaves as pit-fighters to sake the commoners' bloodlust. This horrid display of base savagery not only entertained the masses but also reminded them the price of defiance. It was to this world of suffering and misery that the Twelfth Son arrived. The primarch's life-capsule seared through the atmosphere, crashing into the arid war-torn Badlands. And it was there he was founded by those who would have a lasting impact on him.

 _Serin squinted as he traversed the cracked and blackened earth of this particular part of the Desh'elika Mountains. Bending down, calloused fingers feeling the outside edge, he turned to his wife Helinda. "Feels like glass," he muttered. The two followed the ruined ground to a hillside, both wincing as aged muscles and bones did not react kindly to such travels. What they saw shocked them. Nearly fifty bodies in various states of dismemberment surrounded a large metal pod. They appeared human at a glance but on closer inspection their unworldly beauty, pointed ears, odd armour and weapons, and a sense of alien grace belied that. While disturbing, a more horrifying sight was the gore drenched boy lying on his back amid the aliens, hands clutched tightly around a mangled shard of metal. The boy appeared no older than five years, caked with blood and dirt._

 _Serin moved quickly to the boy. As he neared, the boy's eyes snapped open and looked sharply at him. Pale golden eyes set into a deep brow, a hint of coppery-red hair atop his head. Serin stopped in his tracks, wary. The boy was deeply bruised and savagely cut, but that didn't convey weakness. If anything, it highlighted the child's ferocity._

 _Serin looked backward at Helinda for a moment before turning back to the boy._

" _Hello," he said weakly. Clearing his voice, he tried again. "Hello." The words came out stronger, more confident this time. "My name is Serin. Are you well?" The boy did not reply. Daring, Serin stepped forward, noting the boy's muscles flexing taut as if to strike. "I mean you no harm," he said quickly, but still there was no response._

" _Maybe he doesn't understand us," Helinda remarked. Serin nodded in agreement, taking another step forward, crouching down to appear less threatening. Joints popped and his lower back pain flared but he kept the reaction to a painful grimace. The boy noted this and relaxed._

 _After a moment, Serin extended his hand, open palm upturned. It was a show of friendly invitation. The boy began to tense again, struggling to rise to his knees._

" _Easy, easy, I won't hurt you," he said quickly and sincerely. He approached. "My name is Serin," he repeated, softly patting his chest. He gestured behind him. "And this is my wife, Helinda." She gave a small wave accompanied by a kind smile._

 _The boy was quiet, head cocked and eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he did not make another move of defence or aggression._

" _We'll help you," Serin said, extending his hand out again, more slowly this time. "Our home isn't too far away and we have some medicine saved." The boy seemed to understand an inkling of what was being said. Either he understood the words, or at the very least the intent inherent in them. The boy rose slowly, wounds on his chest gaping but not dripping blood as quickly as would be expected. Serin arched an eyebrow at that. Who and what is he, Serin wondered, but quickly suppressed the thought as the boy fell back to his knees, chest heaving with effort. Serin rushed to his side. The thought would have to wait; he had to take care of him first._

The primarch was found gravely wounded, surrounded by corpses of what would later be identified as an Eldar strike team. Some high-ranking Inquisitors hypothesise that the enigmatic xenos sought to murder the primarch to end the threat he would undoubtedly represent to their species as Mankind's Great Crusade had already taken to the stars. Others assume that the Eldar, ever wary against the machinations of Chaos, foresaw the Twelfth's fall and sought to eliminate him as a result. Nonetheless, it is wholeheartedly agreed that the Imperium would have been spared much suffering if the Twelfth Son had died that day.

Alas, he was not. Discovered by two farmers, they brought the primarch to their home and nursed him back to health in only a matter of days. As the primarch recovered, he learned while reading the few timeworn books Serin and Helinda proudly kept, mastering language with ease. Now healed and able to communicate, the primarch thanked the two. He volunteered to stay and help with matters on the farm. The farmers were old, tired, and were in crippling debt to the nearby city-state, so they quickly accepted the offer. What began as an act of desperation on the farmers' part and a token of gratitude on the primarch's quickly evolved into a deep and respectful friendship. As the days became weeks, the primarch was named Angron by Helinda. The name meant 'Fierce One' in local Nucerian dialect, and the giving of it effectively made Angron the son Serin and Helinda never had.

In the space of a few months, the primarch repaired the farm's failing infrastructure and vastly increased crop production despite recent droughts. Angron lived simply, enjoying honest work and pleasant company. When the tax collectors came a calling near a year later, the three farmers felt they would be secure.

They were wrong.

The city-state's tax collectors demanded the large debt be paid in its entirety in a single instalment without delay. The farmers were unable to do so, despite their recent surge of production. Accompanying the collectors were well-armed guards under orders to seize the farm and its sought after fields, and to shackle the farmers into slavery, knowing there was nothing of value Serin and Helinda had that would save their livelihood. It was at this moment Angron revealed himself, having hid in a crop-field nearby.

" _I will go," Angron declared, striding past wheat stalks to stand before the collectors and soldiers, all of high-rider birth. Their armour polished enough to shine brilliantly, some even wearing prized power armour that marked high status. Many of the troopers carried spears and swords, several soldiers carried las-muskets while officers carried laspistols. As Angron neared, they turned towards him, some backing away warily. He had only been on Nuceria a year, yet he appeared to be a man in his early twenties with the physique of a mythical demigod. He stood a head taller than everyone there, and knew somehow he would only grow more._

" _I will go in their stead. I volunteer myself as tribute," he said, standing beside Serin and Helinda, who looked worried at what their foster son was saying. "I willingly sell myself into slavery. Will that cover the debt?" he demanded of the tax collector primus. The scribe, a product of generations of careful breeding, arched a thin eyebrow and looked him over; calculating the potential gain Angron would secure in the arenas. After only a few seconds, the collector primus nodded._

" _Yes. Their debt is paid." The scribe wrote on a piece of parchment. "You are now property of Desh'ea. I'll give you a moment." The collector turned to convene with the guard captain and several attendants. Angron's eyes flicked to the few dozen slaves already latched to several vehicles, knowing them to be peasants who had either violated capital laws or could not pay their debts. He would join them soon, though he was the only one to do so freely._

 _Turning, Angron faced those who had shown him such kindness and love the past year. Serin's gaze was saddened and Helinda cried. They embraced for a long moment, just standing there, heads bowed solemnly._

 _Eventually, the collector primus coughed. "It's time." Angron held out his hands and large shackles were latched on. He was escorted to a vehicle and a short thick metal chain magnetically locked with the handcuffs to the vehicle's rear end. Serin paid the collector what coin the surplus had brought the farm as it was still mandated for that to be paid. As the column of tax-men, soldiers, overseers and slaves turned from the farm to head back towards the city, Angron saw his parents watching him._

 _Serin stepped forward as the column reached the farm's edge, and spoke in a soft conversational voice which none but Angron could hear._

" _Stay strong, Angron. Fight, kill, but survive. No matter what they do to you, my son, you must survive. And they have not taken your freedom. You gave it willingly and one day you will take it back. I'm sure of that. Live free, Angron."_

It took several weeks for Angron to be brought to Nuceria's most powerful city-state: Desh'ea. During the journey, Angron fought in several ad-hoc contests. The overseers wanted to thin the herd of gladiators before brought to Desh'ea's Grand Coliseum where only the best fought. The primarch killed all set against him. Knowing the system to be inherently wrong, Angron nonetheless did not wish to anger the high-riders, wary of their wrath that could be laid against his family. Angron acted tamely as a precaution, unleashing pent-up anger and resentment onto the slaves forced to fight him. Impressed by the demigod's fighting skills, the slavers sent word to Desh'ea's ruler. By the time Angron and other skilled slaves neared the city, an army of a thousand high-rider soldiers met to bring him before the Desh'ean monarch.

" _Well, well, I can see the rumours were true," spoke Londius Thal'kr, Praxury of Desh'ea, a corpulent man with bejewelled fingers and robes of priceless silk. "You are quite the sight. And how many contests did he win?" the praxury asked the collector primus who doubled as a high-ranking overseer._

" _Seventeen, Your Majesty. Six were against ten or more opponents at once." the slaver said proudly. Such boasting would ensure Angron's sale would be quite profitable for him. Where the praxury's eyes widened in surprised delight, Angron felt bile churning in his stomachs. The contests had been all too easy, none had resisted longer than thirty seconds. Angron ensured all those killed died a quick death. It was the most humane thing available to him._

 _As overseer and monarch continued talking, Angron looked around the chamber. It was Londius' throne room, the imposing Reskium Throne residing upon on a raised dais. The Kin-Body stood resplendent in their power armour, halberds and rifles held tightly and looking upon him as if he were nothing._

" _Deal!" Londius said, clapping meaty hands together. He turned to Angron. "What is his name again?" he asked the overseer._

" _Angron, great lord."_

" _Tsk, a peasant name. If he is to be my property he needs to be a bit more refined, eh." The praxury pursed his lips in thought. "How about Angronius?"_

" _A wise choice, great lord."_

" _Excellent." The praxury moved to Angron and set his hand on the primarch's head, tempting Angron to tear the limb from its socket. "You will win me much coin, I suspect. I know you will do grand things for me, Angronius-Thal'kr."_

Bought by the Desh'ean Praxury, the primarch was implanted with the vile archeotech called the Butcher's Nails. The Nails hyper-increased aggression and thirst for battle to unprecedented levels, implanted into pit-fighters the world over. The primarch, unlike all others who had gone before him, willingly laid himself out on the surgical slab without need for manacles or sedatives. The primarch may have joined slavery willingly to save his family, knowing the horrors involved, but refused to be broken by it.

Once the Nails took, biting deep into the primarch's brain, he was thrust into the gladiatorial arenas, gaining much fame in the first few months, killing all who opposed him. For decades this continued, and as the Nails bit deeper, the more difficult it became for Angron to control himself. Still, he endured, maintaining a veneer of compassion and humanity amongst the incessant slaughter.

 _A new one was crying, only next door to him. The choking gags detailed a desperate tirade of salty tears, echoing faintly in the rough stone cells of slaves, located beneath the arenas where they fought and died. It was midnight and Angron sat on his cell's floor, legs crossed as he took deep breaths to ease the gnawing ache in his brain. Pain. In his soul a deep insatiable hunger awaited, attempting to claw its way out. It was a monster, it was a truth. Dread thoughts tumbled through his mind and he tried to grasp on each one, to hold onto something real. Death. Pain. Death. Blood. Too much, too much! Wait, where was he? Ah, he remembered._

 _Thirty years had passed. Once a farmer, now the most legendary pit-fighter. Such was his reputation in the art of killing that entire rival cities had bowed to Deash'ean dominance rather than risk their unleashing of the Lord of the Red Sands. It was an apt nickname. He truly was lord of the arena, filled with blood and memories of shame. He preferred the simpler life of farming. There he created, but here he only destroyed. Angron looked down upon gnarled hands, wondering what could have been. The crying continued in the cell over. With his mind fully returned, he spoke._

" _It gets easier," he said, the pain forcing the words to be spat out through clenched teeth but thankfully they sounded somewhat friendly. The crying stopped and the person moved closer to the barred window that connected both cells. Angron continued, "The first few days are difficult. Realisation of what you have become and the Nails throbbing in your skull weigh heavy upon you. But once you accept your fate and give it a few days, things get easier or at the very least tolerable."_

 _The person didn't respond, causing Angron to look over. The person turned out to be a familiar looking, middle aged woman of around forty. Calloused hands and worn features were obvious, barring her from servitude in the palace where the boy-monarch Tyral, grandson of long dead Londius, now ruled and only accepted the most beautiful and preserved of slaves to serve and surround him. Those deemed too old, frail, or a host of other reasons were thrown to the arenas where they would be cut down like chaff to thunderous applause. Watery eyes looked over him._

" _I can't believe it," she said hoarsely. "It's you. You haven't changed at all."_

 _Angron raised a questioning brow at that._

" _You might not remember me, I was but a girl at the time, but you saved my life decades ago."_

 _The words sparked a memory._

" _Angelique, yes?"_

" _Yes," she said, tears of joy slithering down gaunt cheeks. Years ago Angron knew her as the neighbouring farm girl. Their families had traded goods, taking produce to market together. He had saved her when a loaded wagon had fallen atop her, nearly killing her but he had intervened, lifting the wagon with ease. He then carried Angelique home and ensured she underwent a full recovery._

 _Angron was sad to see her here. Likely he would be forced to kill her to the cheer of desperate ignorance, which saddened him. She was the first person he had seen that had once known him before he became the gladiator Angronius. It was liberating to be near her._

" _Tell me, Angelique," he said after a moment, the desire to know overwhelming all else, "How are my parents? Did they pass away or do they live still?"_

 _The woman looked at him, confused. "You don't know?" The words hit him in the chest like a hammer. "Of course you wouldn't." She began to cry again._

 _A lump formed in his throat, knowing tragedy was but a sentence away. "Tell me what happened." Angelique sniffed, wiping nose and eyes with her slave's garb, and began to tell him all that had happened. Several months after he was taken away, the slavers and tax collectors had returned, forcing Serin and Helinda to sign away their land to the High House of Thal'kr. They were tortured; farmers from leagues around forced to watch as a warning to those that denied the state its wants. They were born and raised farmers, tougher than any inbred high-rider but they were old and frail. Despite that, Angelique said, the only two people Angron had ever loved endured three days of torture before dying, their corpses strung up on the farm's gates._

 _Angron listened, face expressionless but internally he seethed. It seemed Londius had wanted to tie up loose ends and never revealed it to him, knowing Angron would kill him. The bastard had died content of his mastery over Angron. The primarch had been a fool, a willing blind pawn to be used as a blunt weapon to terrorize free men and cities into submission. The Nails sensed anger and pulsed as a result, increasing the ache's bite into his brain-meat._

 _Angelique finished her tale, watching as his fisted hands drew blood where fingernails dug into the skin. "I'm sorry," she said, but Angron didn't respond. He couldn't. Rage, shame, loss, and sadness stormed within, becoming an inferno. "I'm so very sorry."_

" _Don't be," he gritted through clenched teeth. "Now I can do what I've wanted to do for years. The only people I cared about, the only collateral they held over me, are gone. They will regret that."_

" _What will you do?" she whispered, half-afraid._

" _I will kill them," he said, plans already forming. "I will kill them all."_

Learning of Thal'kr's treachery pushed Angron from compliant slave to one seeking revenge. Though the Nails interfered with judgment and made emotions volatile, the primarch still retained enough wits to orchestrate the freedom of not just Desh'ea's slaves but all those held in bondage across Nuceria. The actions of one petty praxury had damned high-riders everywhere.

Having been a gladiator for thirty years had made Angron a popular pit-fighter for the free men and women of Desh'ea, and a symbol of both dread and admiration amongst other slaves. Over the next several years, Angron quietly manipulated events from within the arena's slave quarters, causing several seemingly sporadic slave rebellions to occur. These were done for two primary reasons. One: to cull those Angron knew wouldn't follow him, either because they detested him or succumbed to the madness brought on by the Butcher's Nails. Two: to test high-rider defences and to wear down guards and jailers.

After years of bleeding the high-riders, making sure he appeared to be nothing more than the role model of subservience, Angron launched the last slave revolt, titled the Great Rebellion. Led by the acclaimed Lord of the Red Sands, slaves from all walks of servitude rose up, from pit-fighters to indentured house servants, butchering their cruel masters. In a single day of violence, the slaves and sympathetic free citizens overthrew Desh'ea's corrupt regime, killing every man, woman and child of the nobility, sparring none.

For ten days after their victory, Angron allowed the newly freed slaves and their allies to rejoice without constraint in the form of endless celebrations, as well as slaughtering many freemen affiliated with the old regime. As the masses enjoyed their new status, Angron locked himself away in the palace archives and read tome after tome of governance, history, philosophy and more. As the primarch's sojourn in the archives ended, he emerged to officially form a new government, titled the Republic, with himself as its First Consul. Forming a council of advisors, Angron announced to the citizens of Desh'ea that the killings and unmonitored violence were to come at an end, stating that law and order were now the rules of the land. Some did not care for this, specifically several hundred pit-fighters who had suffered grievously under the old regime. In defiance of Angron's orders, they slaughtered thousands of high-rider soldiers being held prisoner.

Knowing that a government built on impulsive hate could not last, Angron had the defiant pit-fighters arrested and executed each and every one, accepting the burden of their deaths on his conscience but committed to a better future nonetheless. After that, none disobeyed the First Consul.

As Desh'ea reformed, its subsidiary cities secured by Republican forces, nearby city-states became fearful of slave revolts within their territories and formed an alliance of necessity, marshalling together four armies to deal with Angron and his Republic.

While high-rider armies assembled, Angron knew he had little time to prepare. Pit-fighters and turncoat high-rider soldiery formed the heavy infantry and cavalry of the Republic's army. Volunteers, of which there was no lack of, filled out the light infantry and skirmishers. Las-muskets and the cheaper bolt action solid-slug rifles were churned out by Desh'ean factories, with the handful of more advanced las-weaponry and mechanised vehicles being concentrated among elite units. For weeks the primarch relentlessly trained the freemen, gruelling regimens of scenarios and formations practiced from dawn 'til dusk. Though they often went to sleep bone-weary, they were being hardened into highly disciplined, coordinated units. As training grinded onwards, the primarch developed strategies to deal with the numerically superior foe.

When word reached Desh'ea that the allied slaver armies had begun their march towards Desh'ea, Angron readied his soldiers and enacted carefully constructed plans. The Northern Army marched along a desert highway constructed before Long Night. It numbered only nine thousand soldiers, by far the smallest of the forces arrayed against the Republic. Angron, wishing to preserve his forces, instead opted for a guerrilla campaign. Night attacks, raids, and interrupting supply lines quickly saw the Northern Army run out of food and clean water within weeks. In their desperation, many soldiers drank from a nearby lake, unknowing that it had been poisoned by freemen only hours earlier. The poison was slow working, taking days to take root. Slowly but surely it shut down their bodies. A Republican force of just two thousand swept through the sickened camp, killing every enemy soldier for the loss of less than a hundred.

The Eastern Army consisted of twenty thousand, packed tightly on transport ships to cross the acidic Bodean Sea. During the journey, the small Desh'ean navy was supplemented by primarch-repaired Dark Age-era submersibles. Small engagements took place over several days, leading to the Battle of the Darenel Straights. The entire Republican navy was destroyed, but sunk so many troop transports that nearly fourteen thousand high-rider soldiers died drowning, their clothes and skin eaten away by the contaminated water. The Eastern Army commander withdrew back to his city-state in shame.

Twenty-six thousand soldiers made up the Southern Army, though many were repurposed slaves lost to bloodlust who were to act as cheap cannon fodder. Angron led his twenty thousand freemen to confront them in open battle. The primarch's daring drives into the Southern Army's rear lines slaughtered many noblemen. By day's end, the high-riders fled with their loyal retainers, while many of the surviving slaves swore their loyalty to Angron. Despite the influx of new warriors, many perished in the battle as it was the Republic's first mass land battle, with nearly ten thousand killed.

The Western Army approached from beyond the Desh'elika Mountains. Led by Thrace, Desh'ea's chief competitor for centuries, it numbered over a hundred thousand, and unlike the slave-armies of the South, it was made up entirely of professional soldiers of high-rider and freemen descent. Led by Thrace's heir apparent, and assisted by experienced and talented officers, the Western Army skirted around the mountains. Though this path took longer, it allowed them the most protection from ambush. Angron rushed northward to Desh'ea with his battered army, intent on deciding Nuceria's fate.

 _Colonel Kev le Sae-kyr watched the battle unfold before him. His commander and oldest cousin, Supreme General Oderbin le Sae-kyr stood proudly, laughing as the battle played out._

" _This slave Angronius-"_

" _Angron, lord cousin. He reverted-" Kev corrected._

" _Ah, nothing more than a bloody peasant who now thinks he can take on his betters." Oderbin eyed him critically for a moment, daring Kev to object. When he didn't, the supreme general continued. "Look at this," Oderbin gestured at the battlefield. "This Angron is supposed to be some peerless warrior, some brilliant protégé of the gods! Bah, nothing but a rabble rouser. Look out there, Kev, look! Thirty thousand rebel slaves arrayed against all our might. Even with their surprising coordination and discipline, we still field almost half our army and barely ten thousand of theirs still stands. Take note of this, cousin, after this Thrace will be nigh unstoppable. All of Nuceria will bow to us, not this 'Gladiator King.'"_

 _Kev turned to respond but booming laughter from Oderbin caused him to turn back. The Republic's army, already trapped against Desh'elika, highlighting Angron's lack of military acumen, turned to flee into the mountains._

" _Look at them flee! We will run them down and gut them."_

" _But-" Kev began but his cousin silenced him with a wave. The supreme general ordered the army to pursue, as well as deploying the reserves. Oderbin wanted the rebellion crushed, cowing slaves everywhere and to assert Thracian supremacy. Kev dutifully followed, suppressing any doubts that plagued him._

The Republic army, seemingly fleeing as a broken force, entered the Desh'elika Mountains proper. The Thracian-led army pursued but within hours, it became clear that this was all part of Angron's plan. Controlled avalanches caused massive boulders to block any possible escape route for the Thracians, trapping them in mountains their enemy knew well. Skirmishers haunted the high-riders, entire companies killed in unforgiving ambushes. For weeks Republican forces assailed the high-riders, wearing them down until the sixteenth day, at the base of the imposing Fedan Mhor, Angron attacked the demoralised and depleted Thracian soldiery. In mere hours, the slavers were crushed; most of their commanders killed, leaving those that survived to surrender unconditionally.

 _Kev le Sae-kyr was thrown roughly to the ground. Several other officers were thrown beside him, but he was by far the highest in rank and blood. Before him were the remains of hundreds of Thracian soldiers, many of lofty birth, his cousin included. Their entrails were cast about, weapons broken and armour cracked._

 _The Republican soldiers stood all around them, watching them. The few hundred high-riders that survived were in chains, watching as their officers were treated like vermin. Across the field of death stood a vengeful warlord in front of a burning APC: the Gladiator King, though he detested the title. He was Lord of the Sands, the so called Red Angel, Angron, son of Serin and Helinda. The farmer who became king._

" _Crawl," growled a slave, froth bubbling at the mouth. "Crawl, damn you," the slave spat, giving him a swift quick._

 _Kev did so, crawling over countrymen and friends. Where dead slaves were retrieved to be buried with honour, his kind would rot under an unforgiving sun. Gore plated heavily on Kev's uniform, some his own, most not. As he crawled, former slaves spat and denigrated him, cursing and throwing refuse. Angron observed unblinkingly._

 _After what seemed an eternity under that golden gaze, Kev reached the demigod. The Red Angel stood immobile, silent, as the rest reached Kev. Kev noticed the Butcher's Nails in Angron's skull, causing minute tics around the eyes and mouth, but it was that expressionless look on the slave leader's face that made Kev quiver in unabashed fear._

 _After a time, the First Consul spoke, "Nobility," Angron stretched the word. "There was a time when high-riders were defenders of the people, protecting the weak in the early years of Old Night. But that time has long since passed. You are nothing more than scum, believing your heritage makes you superior. But it doesn't, hnngh," the Nails were causing him pain; Kev saw the tensing of Angron's shoulders. The Nails had been tormenting Angron for over thirty years. Truly, it was remarkable he was still alive. Most died within a decade or so after implantation._

" _Hnngh," Angron said through clenched teeth. "For your uncountable crimes, death is all that is left for you." The large sword was raised and Kev closed his eyes as judgment fell._

Angron executed the surviving high-riders leaders. He released the few hundred soldiers that had survived to spread stories of the Fedan Mhor Massacre. Quickly capitalising on these crushing victories, Angron and his freemen soldiers spread rapidly through Nuceria, conquering and liberating in equal measure dozens of city-states, earning the label Eaters of Cities. For every city brought into the expanding Nucerian Republic, a proconsul was left behind, chosen by Angron.

Though many victories were won, there were setbacks. Angron was the driving force of the Republic, its beating heart and strong arm. When he was well, all was well, but when he was weak, everything became precarious.

 _Angron awoke, head awash with disorientation. The tent's interior felt overly hot despite it being the dead of night. He looked down at his cot, seeing dried blood stain where his head had lain. Fingers reached up to touch blood leaking from nose, ears, eyes, and where the Nails lay. He grimaced, forcing himself out of bed. He staggered to the strategy table in the centre, grabbing the tankard of water waiting there. Downing the tankard's cool contents took seconds but still left him parched and feeling unwell. The Nails, knowing he was conscious, began to thrum and vibrate, teasing at the agony to come._

 _Later. Can't think of it. Later. The map before him showed his armies moving to Celler's Pass, where the combined forces of three minor city-states had gathered. It would be a bloody battle, but winnable, despite the error of Wevren. Thinking of the name made his exhausted eyes look at the Fields of Wevren, near Tobessa. Two days ago, thirty thousand Republic soldiers encamped there, placed there by his command. Thirty thousand men and women with families, loved ones, dreams and hopes, people who trusted him. All dead now, killed by a slaver surprise assault. Angron blamed no one but himself. It was the Nails. They were eating away at his mind, causing mistakes that never should have happened. Wevren was not the first oversight, but it was the largest. Angron dearly wished his soldiers would whisper of the insanity that was setting in, the blood-craze that once saw him slaughter over a hundred of his own, but they said not a word. Their utter belief in him was as endearing as it was foolish. The weight of all those dead began to pile on his psyche, he…_

 _No! He was not some cowering child, he was Angron, Eater of Cities, the Unbroken. Failure was not an option. He would free Nuceria, even if the only ones to see that freedom were the skeletons of the dead._

After decades of war, Nuceria finally became united under Angron's banner, the last battle of freedom being the Siege of Rederun which involved over a million soldiers. Nuceria, after millennia of war, was finally made whole and at peace. Angron ruled exceptionally well, despite bouts of instability, traversing the planet to ensure corruption did not take root. For two decades there was serenity. Nuceria rebuilt itself under the primarch's guidance, cleansing its air and ground of atomic contaminants left over from wars long forgotten. Infrastructure, agriculture, trade and standard of living all improved in that time, harkening back to a better age.

Angron restructured the Republic, knowing his death was looming. The primarch wished for the Republic to endure his demise, and began readying able men and women to rule in his stead.

 _Wind swept briskly across Fedan Mhor's peak as Angron knelt, placing blue petal flowers between the two graves. He sat down cross-legged. The graves were decades old, placed there after the Massacre. Angron had collected their bones from the desolate farm and relocated them here to their adopted son's greatest victory. The place where the tide had turned. From here, they could see the Desh'elika Ridge, the centre of the Mountains. It was breath taking._

" _I hope you two enjoy the view," the primarch said honestly. "It isn't as grand as the farm on harvest day, when the sun's rays colour the wheat stalks red. Hnngh," spittle dribbled down his chin, "Twenty years since the fighting stopped. Slavery is no more; the few high-riders left have sworn loyalty to me and now are no better than the common man. People are free, they are happy. Desh'ea and all the others are places of law, order, justice and equality. It is peaceful. I know you would be, hnngh, proud. I only wish you were here to see it, hnngh."_

 _Thunder roared overhead but Angron ignored it._

" _It wasn't an easy road. Paved with blood, so much blood. During the handful of times I manage to sleep, hnngh, I hear the screams. Flesh cooking under fires of hate, the crying of babes clutched to a mother's breast. So much death. I'll, hnngh, never forget it, nor do I want to. I acknowledge my sins, for they stopped a greater evil." He paused, mind aching. "It won't be long now. Soon, I will join you. Five years, ten at the most, and the Nails will have devoured my mind. Before that happens, I will kill myself. I will die of my own volition, my own man, not an uncontrollable beast. Hnngh. My closest advisors know this, they mourn me already. They can see that I am a dead man walking."_

 _Angron stared at the graves, feeling sorrow, regret, but also a sense of pride. Thunder rolled across the heavens, and this time he looked. Hundreds of dropships were descending through the sky. Though there were many, only one held his attention. It was golden, covered in lightning bolts and eagles._

The Master of Mankind had arrived to Nuceria to reclaim Angron. The Emperor was immediately impressed with what he had accomplished, approving of the changes wrought on the primarch's homeworld. What should have been the beginning of a strong relationship between father and son quickly soured as the two spent more and more time together over the next few weeks, personalities clashing with frightening frequency. While Angron agreed with his creator over the principles of unification and military matters, the Twelfth Primarch soon began to dislike the Emperor's mentality, claiming He exhibited too many 'high-rider tendencies.'

This differences and perceptions doubtlessly could have been corrected over time as they becme acclimated to each other but it was His adamant refusal to remove the Butcher's Nails that made feelings of dislike become ones of unforgiving detest. The Emperor cited it was too dangerous, that the archeotech had become too ingrained in the primarch's physiology that to remove it would almost assuredly kill Angron. The Emperor knew that Angron would eventually die due to the Nails, their mark upon him evident. He shared this with Angron as a show of good faith and recommended ways to slow down the mental degradation that would extend Angron's life for decades, possibly even a century or more. Whether it was meant to prepare His Son or perhaps a show of fatherly concern is unknown. What did occur was Angron exploding into rage. The Emperor's refusal to extract the Nails, or even attempt to do so, convinced Angron that the Emperor was nothing more than a slaver, who wanted the primarch to be kept downtrodden and oppressed, a tool to be used and to be cast aside when its purpose was fulfilled.

It is unknown if the Emperor learned of Angron's view on the matter or if He simply ignored it as irrelevant. Just weeks after arriving to Nuceria, the Emperor departed as the needs of the Great Crusade became incessant. Left behind to defend Nuceria was a small fleet commanded by Astartes officer Captain Khârn. Mere hours after his father's departure, Angron forced the highest ranking Mechanicum Adept, a certain Archmagos Veneratus Vel-Kheredar, to conduct the risky and Emperor-defying surgery to remove the Nails. Only Vel-Kheredar had the medical skill and knowledge to even attempt the operation, and threatened with death by the primarch, was forced to perform the operation.

Removing the Nails took over a hundred hours. There were many instances were Angron neared death's abyss but each time he prevailed, pulling through with enough vitality to move onto the next phase. Eventually the Nails were extracted, but Angron slipped into a coma at the surgery's conclusion. For days the primarch did not move, his body for all intents and purposes having shutdown. Vel-Kheredar informed Khârn that even if the primarch awoke, he would likely be in a vegetable state, his mind unable to cope with the pain left in the Nails' void. Khârn kept this information to himself, now wanting to demoralise his brothers in the fleet but rumours soon spread.

But Angron was a fighter. This could never be denied, not even by the Chaos Gods themselves who style him as such in their names for the Anathema's creations. He would become something greater in the years to come, but his origins always showcase resilience and fierce resolve. His first act of sentience was killing assassins sent to murder him in his youth. So Angron did not die, he endured, healing. On the eighth day of a coma the Red Angel awoke, mind intact.

The primarch's awakening coincided with the rest of the Twelfth Legion arriving to Nuceria. Angron welcomed his progeny and addressed them all before Desh'ea's gates. The Lord of the Red Sands swore loyalty to the Imperium, though some muttered disapprovingly that the Emperor was not included in this pledge of fealty, but such things were quickly dispelled as Angron assumed command and renamed the War Hounds to the World Eaters.

" _Your warriors of the Republic were eaters of cities, sire, but with you to command us the War Hounds will be eaters of worlds! None shall be able to stand against our might. Neither man nor xenos."_

" _World Eaters. World Eaters. Hmm. Very well, so shall you be, then, my sons. Come with me, then, World Eaters."_

 _-Captain Dreagher of the XII in discussion with Primarch Angron_

The next several months were of recovery and Legion reorganisation, during which the Emperor sent curt congratulations to Archmagos Vel-Kheredar alongside a stern rebuke to the tech-priest. The Emperor was none too pleased with Angron either but decided to never make the disagreement and rebuke public for fear of how it would affect Imperial morale. Unlike many primarchs, Angron was given command of his Legion without any sort of seconding to the Emperor or a fellow primarch. Soon Angron's healing came to an end and the Legion had been modified per his wishes. Subsequently the XII left Nuceria to return to the Great Crusade.

 **Great Crusade-**

After a century of searching, the XII finally reunited with their gene-sire. The XII changed much under Angron, not only in name but in practice. No longer were they the brutal warriors who conquered Terra's Sa'afrik through courage-driven ferocity. No longer were they the Emperor's hounds to be unleashed against worlds that drew His ire. No longer were they to be used as cannon fodder as they had been during the Rangdan Xenocides. Instead of barely maintained coherence and bloodthirsty tendencies, Angron reformed them to be highly adaptive, disciplined and organised soldiers.

Early on in the Crusade, the Imperial War Council had deemed the XII unsuited for compliance actions, more fit for wars of annihilation and their war record reflects this. Very few Expeditionary Fleets containing XII contingents brought worlds into the Imperium peacefully. Under Angron this too changed. Now the paragons of freedom, the World Eaters quickly became a symbol of hope for the downtrodden and oppressed throughout the galaxy, liberating many slave worlds.

Thousands of star systems were integrated into the Imperium by the Lord of the Red Sands and his sons, many of them peacefully for they respected the Legion's military might and Angron's honest charisma. While Angron was considered a fair primarch, and by far one of the more talented in terms of strategy, he did not bond well with his brothers, particularly those who were close to the Emperor, such as Russ or Horus. The exception to this was Dorn and Guilliman, whom Angron respected greatly though their relationship with the Emperor prevented anything more than friendly acquaintance.

The only brother Angron felt any true kinship with was Corvus Corax, Primarch of the Raven Guard. The two grew close over similar origins. The Liberator and the Unbroken Gladiator fought in many campaigns together, greatly expanding the Imperium's borders. Their only point of contention revolved around the Outcasts, Terran-born Raven Guard who were mistrusted by Corax due to past association with Horus. Corax had exiled them to the outer edges of the galaxy to fight and die, unremembered by the rest of the Imperium. For Angron, this was a waste of brave warriors and thus recruited them into his ranks. Though it remained a sore spot between them, both still valued each other and continued to fight alongside one another for decades more.

 _The Dark Eldar encampment was aflame. Astartes in blue and white fought along those in black and white, freeing the captives held in large cages of serrated iron. The xenos, insidious copies of their Craftworld brethren, died beneath chainaxe and bolter. After over four months of hunting down the pirate lord Kelk'leir, the alien had been cornered on the desert world of Naddawen. Over six hundred Dark Eldar were planet-side, with a small fleet in orbit, principally transports. Now they faced the wrath of two Legions._

 _First Captain Ibram Ghreer gutted one, shot another, moving alongside his brothers in well-honed unison. The company moved forward, shields interlocked, weapon ports ablaze with bolter fire. The xenos, so terrible to the weak, were naught but filth to Astartes. Filth that needed to be expunged._

 _From the ranks of legionnaires emerged two demigods. One clad in gold and crimson, the other in black and white. They fought in perfect synchrony. It was a spectacle to witness. Dark Eldar fell to their chainaxes and lightning claws._

 _A score fell before the primarchs; their skills complimenting one another flawlessly. Another dozen approached them but Devourers and Shadow Wardens protected their fathers' flanks while the two moved further into the camp, felling all xenos that dared to approach._

 _Angron may have detested such titles like lord and king, but he was the epitome of them. Noble in disposition, wise in council, exemplary in combat and tactics, he not only expected loyalty, he inspired it with ease. The ruthlessness of Horus, the charisma of Sanguinius, the determination of Dorn… he was the best of them._

 _The first captain moved to the cages as planned, breaking the locks with det-charges. The prisoners, thousands of humans taken by xenos over the past few months from several Imperial worlds, flooded out, guided by World Eater and Raven Guard legionnaires to awaiting dropships while several companies continued to fight beside the primarchs as they quickly mopped up any remaining resistance._

 _Ghreer used his body to shield a mother and her child as they ran to a parked Stormbird. The victorious shouts of "For Angron!" and "For Corax!" echoed through the air as Mankind's judgment finished off the wicked._

As the Great Crusade reached its second century, the Orks centred on Ullanor could no longer be ignored. The Emperor assembled the largest force ever seen during the Crusade. The Luna Wolves, Blood Angels, White Scars, Imperial Fists, Ultramarines and World Eaters were called forth, led by their respective primarchs. Billions of Imperial Army troopers were carried by thousands of warships to the Ullanor Cluster. The Emperor knew conventional warfare against the Ullanor empire would last years, possibly even a decade or longer. To avoid that, He crafted a daring operation in conjunction with His sons.

The honour of assaulting the Orks' outer systems would go to the Ultramarines and World Eaters. They were to engage and tie down as many xenos forces as possible. The White Scars were to warp deep behind enemy lines and draw the reserves away from the core worlds. As these played out, the Emperor would lead the Luna Wolves, Blood Angels, and the Imperial Fists in an assault on Ullanor itself.

Though seemingly side-lined from glory, Angron revelled in the chance to show his skill on a largescale. Coordinating with Guilliman, the World Eaters and Ultramarines assaulted two score star systems. What would typically have been seen as overly ambitious and dangerous, instead bore fruit when each system felt to the omega of Macragge and the devoured world of Nuceria. Tens of millions of Orks perished under Ultramarine guns and World Eater blades.

After Horus killed Urlakk Urg, the Triumph was called. Angron witnessed the Emperor raise His Favoured Son to Warmaster, which angered him for Angron knew he was the superior candidate. While others congratulated Horus, either truly or coolly, Angron left Ullanor in disgust. It seemed merit and skill meant nothing when compared to the Emperor's nepotism. This coupled with the Nails fiasco and other serious disagreements over the years saw Angron become quite bitter towards his creator.

Matters did not improve when Horus, having felt slighted by Angron's disrespect at the Triumph, ordered his brother to conduct thankless campaigns against minor yet dangerous xenos species in the Edemar Belt that devolved into unforgiving meat grinders that saw thousands of World Eaters die over the next several years for no consequential gain. Adding on to this misery came reports that many worlds that had been freed from slavery by Angron had now fallen back into servitude in the form of serfdom. A lesser evil to be sure when compared to slavery but still wrong in the primarch's eyes. This drove Angron further into melancholic fury, his loathing of the Emperor, Horus and the current state of the Imperium reaching new heights every day. Therefore it is little wonder that when Lorgar and Fulgrim came seeking an ally, they found Angron more than willing. It did not take much for the Urizen and Phoenician to convince the Red Angel to betray the Emperor.

 _They all bleed the same. This is a universal truth. Mortal or demigod, peasant or high-rider; all bleed the same colour when cut. I brought Nuceria back from the brink. Once I had hoped the same could be done for the Imperium. But my creator's arrogance cannot be contained. Horus commands us, self-important and ordering me and mine to die in the gutters while he revels in adoration. The aristocratic Council of Terra grows ever bolder; throwing their authority about like a stone in a glass house._

 _Fulgrim isn't any better than Him but at least he can be moderated, guided. The Chemosian peacock thinks bribery will secure my loyalty by promising me to be the next Warmaster, but he is wrong. Oh, I desire it, true, but it isn't out of ambition or hunger for power. No. In that position I can better protect the species from the enemies that assail us from without and the nobles that corrupt us from within._

 _They all bleed. My brothers bleed. I bleed. The Emperor bleeds, I've seen it. And what can bleed can be killed._

 **The Heresy-**

Angron, in conjunction with Shade Lord Arkhas Fal, quietly purged the Outcast of loyalists, renaming them Chainsworn. From there the Red Angel led the XII to Bellanor under the guise of partaking in the elimination of the Night Lords. Thousands of World Eaters were selected to partake in the first wave. They landed in Rose City via drop-pods, fighting alongside the Blood Angels as their cousins in the XIV and XVIII secured the city's outer districts. The World Eaters suffered heavy losses in the initial landings due to highly accurate anti-air fire and entrenched Nostraman legionnaires yet were able to establish secure landing zones inside the city.

Hours of intense street by street combat followed as the loyalists neared Konrad Curze's command centre. When word reached them that the second wave was inbound, many were certain victory was well in hand. This view was shattered in the massacre that followed, the Salamanders and loyal Death Guard suffered most heavily against the newly revealed traitors. Sanguinius rallied the loyalists, using his Blood Angels and the Emperor-loyal World Eaters to secure Serenity Spaceport for Imperial evacuation.

During the Bellanor Exodus, the traitors encircled and began to advance. It was slow and costly, but the end result was not in doubt. During the Exodus, traitor World Eaters were at the forefront of the rebel attacks, breaking through hastily assembled loyalist barricades and ensuring many would never make it off-world. Angron led his sons into battle, engaging in personal combat with not one but two primarchs.

 _The sounds of war were ever-present as Angron neared Vulkan. His Devourers encircled them both, ensuring none would interfere._

" _I had hoped you would join us, Vulkan. Out of all us, you are the most humane. You could have rebuilt the Imperium to protect the weak. I can only liberate, break their shackles, but you, you could have been their teacher. The one to enrich their minds, make them something greater than what they were. Together, you and I can temper Manus and Fulgrim, make them accountable. Join us, Vulkan." Angron hesitated. "Join me, brother."_

 _Vulkan's red eyes looked around, taking in the burning Rose City, the void war being waged in orbit, the tens of thousands dead by those once called comrade. "You call this liberation, Angron. A breaking of shackles, yet I see nothing but treachery."_

" _I thought you a visionary, someone to do what was right, no matter the consequence."_

" _Strange," coughed Vulkan, blood flecking out. "I thought you the same."_

 _Both rushed the other. They fought like this for some time, until Angron got the better of the Salamander Primarch. Vulkan may have been stronger, but Angron was a fighter first and foremost. Angron took wounds, but Vulkan took far more. Right hand cut off, deep gouges in the chest and legs, blood flowed freely. After a time, he threw the Drake Lord onto the ground, intent on finishing it._

 _As he raised a chainaxe, a bellow came from the air._

" _Angron!" Sanguinius yelled as he landed. Angron turned and saw the usually serene face contorted with rage. Angron readied his weapon._

" _Brother. Leave. Run," rasped Vulkan, a growing pool of blood surrounding him. Sanguinius positioned himself to protect his brother. Angron studied the Angel for a moment. "Red Angel versus Angel of Blood. It is almost poetic," he said, taking a combat stance. There was a pause then their battle began._

Sanguinius recovered Vulkan and hours later the loyalists finished their evacuation. Angron was stalled at the spaceport's outer fields, delayed by the brave sacrifice of Captain Ehrlen and three hundred other XII loyalists under his command. Though all who resisted Angron died, they were fondly remembered by the Exodus' survivors, particularly the Blood Angels who constructed a Wall of Sacrifice in their honour upon Baal.

As the loyalist fleet broke through the rebel trap, escaping through a Mandeville point, Angron attended the first council of the newly raised War Commander. Fulgrim despatched his brothers far and wide across the galaxy. Angron's task was to protect the flanks of the primary drives. It would be a task in which he proved exemplary in. Many loyalist forces attempted to bisect the traitor forces, all failing. If it were not for the World Eaters protecting Fulgrim's flanks, the rebellion's chances of reaching Terra would have been effectively nil.

In the months after the Dropsite Massacre, as word spread of heresy and rebellion, the Twelfth Primarch hoped to win his closest brother Corax to his side. The two met on a long abandoned moon in an unnamed star system. It is unknown what transpired there, as only the two demigods were present, but it is known that both left with their lives and that Corax held true to his oaths to the Emperor.

In the third year of the Heresy, amidst an array of rising threats, War Commander Fulgrim ordered that for military and propaganda reasons, the Kiavahr System should fall. Kiavahr was a Forge World, one sworn to a Space Marine Legion, and thus was a sought after target. Couple in a small Raven Guard garrison and that a seditious element was present in Kiavahr's tech-guilds, then Kiavhar became not only valuable but vulnerable.

Angron volunteered to lead the assault. The primarch readied 30,000 World Eaters and five thousand Chainsworn, accompanied by three clan-companies of the Iron Hands led by Captain Casalir Lorramech and the Sons of Fulgrim's Second Millennial commanded by Captain Tyberius Sakaeron. Once ready and a battle plan formulated, the traitor forces attacked the Kiavahr System. Though only a thousand XIX legionnaires defended their home, the orbital defences and Mechanicum forces in-system would have prevailed against the traitors if the defences had not been sabotaged by traitor spies mere minutes before the battle began. With the defences down, the Iron Hands and Sons of Fulgrim assaulted Kiavahr; meanwhile the World Eaters attacked Deliverance.

 _Lotara Sarrin watched as the battle unfolded. The_ Conqueror _and its escorts hovered over Deliverance, wary of any remaining Raven Guard vessels still in hiding, waiting for the chance to strike. Not far away lay the Sons of Fulgrim and Iron Hand fleets in Kiavahr high orbit, their Astartes fighting alongside rebel tech-guilds against the loyalist Mechanicum forces. The rebel guilds, united by the secretive Order of the Dragon cult, had corrupted over half of Kiavahr's tech-priesthood but the loyalists were still able to field hundreds of thousands of Skitarii and nearly a million combat-servitors. But the Third and Tenth Legions had the matter in hand, with over ten thousand legionnaires on the Forge World, supplemented by nearly a million battle automata and several dozen Phoenician-loyal Army regiments._

 _Primach Angron was making quick work of the Raven Guard's fortress-monastery on the moon, efficiently moving through the Ravenspire's vast amount of corridors, many of which were purposefully confusing and misleading. What would have been weeks of slowly combing through the catacombs, was accelerated with the Chainsworn's assistance. The bitter sons of Corax fought their more favoured brothers, revealing any weaknesses of the fortress-monastery to the Lord of the Red Sands._

" _Captain, augur arrays detect a squadron of Raven Guard warships approaching from sector four."_

 _Sarrin nodded, rising to look at a different set of view-screens. Specially calibrated augur arrays had detected the XIX ships using their renowned stealth engines to initiate a surprise attack. An attack which would now fail. The Raven Guard seemed to realise this and accelerated to attack speed to enter close range._

" _Ready weapons, launch bomber squadrons, and despatch destroyer squadrons under Captain Adamin to intercept. We will provide support." The bridge bustled with activity. Sarrin watched as the World Eater fleet flawlessly shifted to protect the transports and the flagship, readying itself for the loyalist ships. There would be casualties, perhaps several ships lost, but in the end there would be only victory._

The Invasion of Deliverance ended in victory for the Traitor Legions. Angron departed the Kiavahr System to resume his previous duties, leaving the XIX home system under Iron Hand control. For a year the Heresy continued, the Arch-Traitor driving ever closer to Terra. But by the fourth year of the Heresy, matters had deteriorated in one theatre of the war.

The Space Wolves had been nipping away at Fulgrim's flanks for years. Initially these were nothing more than skirmishes and raids, the losses suffered easily replaceable, but as the years trudged onwards the Sixth Legion grew more and more daring, assaulting crucial supply depots and ravaging key traitor worlds. As Russ accumulated victory after victory, the War Commander ordered Angron to deal with the Wolf King. Angron assembled much of his Legion and took command of several other Traitor Legion forces in the vicinity, uniting them into a single, cohesive force.

Over the course of a year, the Unbroken Gladiator put on display his tactical shrewdness, encircling the VI and tying the noose ever tighter until the Wolves of Fenris were trapped against the Ruinstorm's stormwall. The ensuing Battle of the Stormwall saw both sides become thoroughly mauled, but Angron's multi-Legion force had reserves and resources while Russ did not.

Despite the Space Wolves legendary prowess in close quarters combat, it fared poorly when laid against the more numerous traitor forces. The World Eaters, Sons of Fulgrim, Word Bearers, Iron Hands alongside smaller contingents of other Legions moved in for the killing blow. Despite Angron's peerless calculation, the primarch could never have factored in what happened in the battle's final hours.

The Ruinstorm's turbulent stormwall into Ultramar parted, albeit temporarily, allowing most of the remnant Sixth Legion a chance to withdraw. Russ, wishing to save as many of his sons as possible, ordered the _Hrafnkel_ to charge into the midst of the traitor fleet, its target the _Blessed Lady_ , an Abyss-class battleship that was crippling the withdrawing loyalists.

Russ and over a thousand of his warriors assaulted the Word Bearer vessel as their own flagship was destroyed, turning its immense guns upon the traitor fleet. Angron quickly reinforced the beleaguered battleship, and the two primarchs came to blows on the _Blessed Lady_ 's bridge.

" _You have lost, Leman," Angron said simply. Dozens of Astartes lay dead on the bridge, hundreds of mortals, many scarred ritually as was typical of the Colchisians, also lay among the deceased. "You did well, brother, but your defiance comes to an end." Devourers flanked either side of the Lord of Winter and War, breaching shields, bolters, and blades of all types aimed at the primarch. Russ' honey-blond hair was dark with matted blood, armour heavily damaged, and wounds aplenty on his person. On the bridge's periphery the few remaining Space Wolves fought to reach their sire, failing as more and more World Eaters entered._

 _Russ eyed the others, manoeuvring_ Mjalnar _into a defensive stance. "Too much of a coward to face me yourself?" he challenged._

 _Angron chuckled, something of immense rarity. "A coward? No. But I am a realist. In single combat you would probably kill me. Maybe. But I have already beaten you. I don't have to take that chance."_

 _Russ growled like a rabid dog, flashing elongated canines. "You fight better than they do," Russ said, referring to their brothers, as red-tinged saliva dripped to the floor._

" _I'm sure I do. But I intend to survive this war, to elevate humanity and ensure its dominance. I intend to free Mankind."_

" _Free?" Russ snapped with contempt. "I've seen what your 'freedom' leads to. You decry slavery yet embrace its horridness. I've seen the camps, the arenas. You have become everything you claimed to hate."_

 _Angron sighed. "You do not understand. I once foolishly thought that freedom should be bequeathed to all, that all were equal. I realised the error of my ways. Freedom must be seized by force. It is a gift only the strong are worthy for."_

" _Yes… every tyrant who has ever lived believed in freedom… for himself." Russ spat on the deck "I tire of this. Fight me."_

 _Angron levelled_ Fedekkar (Freedom) _and_ Hu'shaelk (Justice). _"As you wish." He activated the chainaxes, their whirring adding to the bridge's cacophony. "Die well, Leman."_

" _I have no intention of dying."_

Russ was long renowned for his skill in personal combat, and in other situations could have perhaps killed Angron, but the Red Angel was no fool and used his elite bodyguard in subjugating and nearly killing Russ, the Devourers suffering heavy losses in the process. But before the killing blow could be delivered, a lone Rune Priest intervened.

Othere Wyrdmake used his gifts to teleport the wounded Russ to the battle-barge _Ragnarok_. The battered warship quickly fled into Ultramar and before traitor forces could pursue, the stormwall closed and the Ruinstorm was whole once more. Angron was vexed that Russ had escaped, but nonetheless reported to Fulgrim of his successful campaign as it greatly depleted the Sixth Legion and the survivors now resided in isolated Ultramar.

The final two years of the Heresy saw Angron assist in breaking through loyalist defence lines leading further and further into the Imperium's heartland. It was during this time that Angron was seen carrying an immense black sword, having eschewed his legendary chainaxes. It is unknown who made the weapon, many predicting it was a gift from the Dark Mechanicum but others more knowledgeable whispered it originated from a viler source. After seven years of catastrophic war, the Traitor Legions had reached Sol. After thirty days of void warfare the Eight Legions attained orbital supremacy over the Throneworld.

The World Eater forces spearheaded the assault on Luna, ensuring its quick capitulation to the War Commander. To gain a foothold on Terra itself, Angron led his warriors in the capture of the Lion's Gate Spaceport while the White Scars secured Eternity Wall.

Though Manus directed the siege, it was Angron who led the assaults that saw Imperial defences become pushed further and further into the Palace. The Saturmine and Ultimate Gates fell after months of battle, with only the Eternity Gate barring the traitors their victory. It was during this tumultuous time that the Raven Guard arrived to reinforce the loyalists. While the bulk of the XIX scattered across Terra to hamper the traitors, Corax led his elite companies to the Imperial Palace, secreting inside via ways known only to the Legio Custodes.

On the ninety-third day of the Siege, the Gorgon's arsenal was able to breach the Eternity Gate. There the forces of Chaos assaulted the loyalist positon, held back only by the might of three loyal demigods. The Bloodthirster Ka'Bandha threw itself at Horus, Manus engaged Perturabo, and Angron confronted Corax.

 _Standard Bearer Jeddek pierced the chestplate of an Iron Warrior with the sharpened end of the standard. Pushing the Olympian off, he blocked a blow by a Son of Horus. A fellow World Eater shot the Cthonian, sea-green armour peeling off from the heat of the plasma. The loyalist fell, his lower half melting, yet still he clung to Jeddek. The standard bearer brought out his combat blade and slashed the legionnaire's throat, blood pouring out onto the rubble._

 _The crevice that led into the Inner Palace was not particularly large but it had taken weeks to create, uncounted munitions spent and unknown magicks laid against it. Loyalists had poured out like insects from a kicked mound, brandishing their weapons and shields. If not for the three primarchs denying the rebellion's triumph, the World Eaters would have led the assault as they had done so many times before, tearing the corrupted heart of the Imperium out and crushing it._

 _But the Warmaster, Iron King and Liberator denied the Twelfth Legion this victory that was their due. They sought to preserve a regime built upon lies and nepotism. It was expected of the vainglory Horus and the obedient Perturabo, but seeing Corax fight Angron hurt Jeddek. He was not an artist of the III or the IX, or attuned to the needs of the people like the XIII or XVIII, but in that moment Jeddek saw a great tragedy play out._

 _The Red Angel swung the Black Blade and the Ravenlord parried. The Liberator soared overhead with his jump pack, lashing out with his power whip which was deflected by the Unbroken Gladiator. On and on they fought, no hesitation and no words, only intent and duty driving them. He saw tears fall from the Raven's face, and the firmness in the jaw of his own sire. They were brothers; more than that, they were friends. Every blow, every cut, every lash was laden with sorrow and regret yet unleashed without qualm._

 _Even as a Raven Guard legionnaire disembowelled him, his strength spilling onto the dirt and stone of Mankind's Cradle, Jeddek could not take his eyes off Angron and Corax. Even as Horus broke the red skinned daemon's back across his knee, Jeddek watched. Even as the vox flooded with messages of an ordered withdrawal, Jeddek watched. Jeddek fell face first onto the ground as his brothers and cousins withdrew back to the Outer Palace, glad he never saw the outcome of Angron and Corax's duel, for no matter who won, he would have wept. As the darkness enclosed, the whispers of daemons long suppressed growing ever louder, Jeddek died, free from the burden of witnessing the end._

The loyalists had thrown back the traitors after hours of combat and the gap bulldozed shut. Fulgrim was furious with Manus and Angron, especially when Magnus informed the Phoenician of inbound Imperial reinforcements. Yet the War Commander had a final card to play, a last ditch effort to seize victory from the clutches of defeat. On the ninety-fifth day Angron and Manus led another assault onto the wall to distract the defenders while Fulgrim and a contingent of his legionnaires teleported deep into the Inner Palace, its protective void shields having been deactivated by the Alpha Legion.

Yet this last gambit failed. The War Commander was killed by the Emperor, causing the demoralised Sons of Fulgrim to flee with their gene-sire's corpse. The Eight Legions quickly lost cohesion as news of their titular leader's death spread through the ranks. The retreat from Terra was uncoordinated and made with haste. Many lost their lives in the mad dash to escape Terra as vengeful loyalists attacked the retreating traitors with renewed vigour. Angron, seeing so many of his allies abandoning the Siege knew that to stay was to die needlessly. Aboard the _Conqueror_ , Angron seethed at victory being snatched away, all his dreams and ambitions in danger of fading. It was there that a source of strength, long whispering to the primarch, urged him to return to Nuceria and ascend to new heights of power. Angron knew that with that power he would never be beholden to another again, never in chance of being shackled or made a lesser of another.

Thus, Angron made his way home after so many years away.

 **Paved with Blood-**

The Imperium knows the year that followed the climatic Siege as the Year of Intermission. To the World Eaters, this was known as the beginning of the Bloodletting. While the Imperium prepared for its great counterattack, the Twelfth Legion carved a bloody path towards Nuceria. World after world fell to their blades, regardless of allegiance, the peoples butchered and offered up as sacrifices to their patron god Khorne who had used the intense violence of the Heresy to worm his way into the minds and souls of the XII. Worlds became stained with blood of innocents.

When the Imperium finally initiated the Great Scouring, four traitor primarchs came together to form the Syndicate Chaotica to better defend their territory. Angron and his Legion would have been a great asset to the Syndicate but their antagonistic and violent actions laid against the other Traitor Legions prevented this.

The Bloodletting lasted for six years, seeing hundreds of worlds ravaged by the XII. In the fifth year of the Scouring, the World Eaters finally reached their nominal homeworld. Nuceria was defended by a loyalist garrison of the XII, who had reverted back to the old name of War Hounds. These Emperor-loyal legionnaires were led by Captain Daerik, a veteran of the Legion long before being reunited with its primogenitor. Just as the World Eaters descended upon Nuceria, the entirety of the Raven Guard Legion emerged from the system's shadow. War Hound and Raven Guard fought World Eater across the planet. Brothers in blood and oath fought one another on Angron's homeworld, damaging its repaired biosphere with atomics, rad-weapons and more.

In Desh'ea, heart of the Nucerian Republic, Angron and Corax fought once more, both knowing only one would walk away this time.

 _The coliseum was empty. Where once crowds sat, clamouring for blood, now only empty stone benches looked down upon the sand covered arena. He had allowed it to remain as a monument to a world's transgressions. The sky was overcast with tumultuous clouds, reddish-white lightning arcing across the heavens. It was planet-wide and with every death it grew ever fiercer and more dangerous._

 _Angron sat cross-legged in the arena's centre. He had dismissed his bodyguards, sending them to fight as his representatives across Nuceria, rooting out Daerik's War Hounds and combating the Raven Guard. Desh'ea had quickly become a war-torn battlefield, thousands dead, but the coliseum remained empty. He knew from orbit the XIX fleet could see him, knew they debated whether to level the city, sacrificing their own Astartes and allies to end him. But they did not. Their father refused it._

 _As if on cue, the rusted iron gates of the primary entryway clattered open. Corvus Corax entered, similarly alone. The black-clad primarch moved, almost hesitantly, towards the centre, stopping nearly thirty metres away. Angron grasped handfuls of sand, letting it slip through his fingers back to the ground. He repeated the motion as the two brothers stared at one another._

" _I am glad you came, Corvus. I'm glad it was you to hunt me down."_

 _Corax said nothing, eye darting into the recesses of the coliseum, searching for threats in the shadows._

" _Don't worry, no one will bother us. This is a matter between brothers, between friends."_

" _You lost my friendship thirteen years ago."_

 _Angron nodded sadly and sighed deeply. "I have many regrets, Corvus. They pile upon me, burden me endlessly. I would have been lost to despair had I not learned to let them go, like sand sifting through my fingers. Do I regret what I did during the civil war? Some of it, yes. Betraying the Emperor, no. Orchestrating the deaths of billions, no. Nearly killing Vulkan, yes. But the one I regret the most is the loss of your friendship."_

 _Corax shook his head minutely but did not speak._

" _I am a monster. I always was one, but I'd suppressed it. The war chipped away at that resolve, revealed my true self. The bloodlust has returned, the urge to kill ever prevalent. I have made contracts with a being far older than any of us. He gives me power and strength and all he asks for is skulls and for blood to drown the galaxy. A small price to pay for retaining my sanity. I know what you will say; I see it in your eyes. I will not become the puppets Jaghatai and Magnus have become. What I have with Khorne," the storm overhead crackled with red-tinged lightning at the name, "is a partnership, not subservience."_

 _Corax shook his head sadly. Rain began to fall to the earth. Angron could have sworn it tasted of copper, like blood. The rain thickened, becoming a torrent._

" _Whatever lies you have to tell yourself, Angron, it makes no difference. You have committed great wrongs." Corax ignited his Lightning Claws, their power fields continually hissing as water impacted them, steam rising into the air. "And I intend to right them."_

 _Angron rose slowly from the now muddy ground. He grabbed the Black Blade, tightening the weapon's chains around his forearms as he pulled it from the ground. Taking a stance, Angron looked sadly upon Corax._

" _Tell me, do you have regrets, brother?" he asked._

 _Lightning struck across the sky, lighting the arena in blood red colour, highlighting Corax's face and dark eyes. For a moment, the Raven did not speak but as he raised his Lightning Claws, he spoke four words. "I have many regrets," then charged and Angron ran to meet him._

Angron fought his beloved brother in the arena where he earned the title Lord of the Red Sands. They fought without speaking, trading blows and not holding back. Corax was one of the better fighters amongst the Emperor's sons, using speed and varied attacks to circumvent an opponent's skill but Angron knew his brother only too well. Using newly acquired strength and endurance, Angron defeated and killed his brother, piercing the Raven Primarch through the chest with the Black Blade. At the moment of Corax's death a multitude of red lightning impacted the arena floor, elevating Angron to the ranks of daemon primarch, the favoured warrior of the Blood God Khorne.

The storms over Nuceria violently increased in intensity. The Raven Guard retrieved their father's corpse as a mass evacuation of the planet commenced. The World Eaters made way to the Eye of Terror, led by their new Daemon Primarch. The Raven Guard and War Hounds attempted to rescue Nuceria's population but there was too little time. It is estimated less than half of one percent was able to be evacuated before the planet's warp-based storm made atmospheric travel impossible. Mass hysteria and uncontrollable bloodlust gripped those left behind as millions of red-skinned daemons poured out of the warp to massacre the citizens, forcing Captain Daerik and Legion Master Branne Nev to authorise _Exterminatus_ of the planet.

The World Eaters arrived to the Eye of Terror and for the next century there was a hesitant peace in the Great Storm. Skirmishes, raids, and similar events were common enough but there was no mass warfare between the various Traitor Legions. That changed when Angron launched an assault on Falzyer. Disgusted with the Sons of Fulgrim for perceived weakness and cowardice following their gene-sire's death, Angron wished to purge their bloodline from the Eye. The Battle of Falzyer was but the opening shot of what would become known as the Legion Wars. Soon all Legions within the Eye of Terror began to attack their one-time allies and comrades, seeking to expand territory, acquire slaves and resources or simply to sate the kill-urge.

Angron led his sons in battles that rivalled and, on occasion, eclipsed the largest battles of the Fulgrimian Heresy. For two centuries the Eye of Terror bled amidst laughter of thirsting gods, with alliances forged and discarded, betrayal and hate becoming ever more ingrained into the Astartes and mortals that lived in the Eye.

In the aftermath of the Third Legion's reunification under Sakaeron, Angron retired to the Daemon World of Drakaasi, his bloodlust temporarily sated and Khorne pleased with the countless lives lost.

As centuries passed since the Heresy, the various Traitor Primarchs became less and less involved with mortal affairs, partaking in the Great Game of Chaos. Though Jaghatai Khan, Ferrus Manus and Magnus all led several invasions of Imperial territory, only Konrad Curze and Angron did so with any degree of frequency. While Curze attacked the Imperium from the Ghoul Stars, labelled Terror Crusades, Angron led his sons in Blood Crusades.

The Blood Crusades were immense invasions, nearly rivalling some of the smaller Vengeance Crusades in scope. Consisting of tens of thousands of World Eaters, millions of Blood Pact soldiers and hundreds of millions of Khornate cultists, these crusades are among the most dangerous threats the Emperor's Realm faces. In fact, before Sakaeron cemented his powerbase in the Eye, establishing himself as the War Commander of Chaos, Angron led the first largescale invasion of the Imperium, two centuries before the First Vengeance Crusade.

The First Blood Crusade began in 522.M31. Angron led an army of forty thousand legionnaires, made up of World Eaters and the entirety of the Chainsworn, and over twelve million Blood Pact soldiers. Breaking through the Iron Cage defences was difficult but inevitable under the primarch's direction. Vexing High Lords and vaunted strategists alike, Angron made way to Skalathrax, homeworld of the Imperial Paladins Space Marine Chapter.

It took several months to reach the hostile planet, all the while the Imperium scrambled to protect vital star systems. From Cadia to Terra, Imperial forces redeployed and reinforced. Angron knew he would have time to act with impunity. The World Eaters landed on Skalathrax, overrunning the loyal Astartes' defences, overrunning the fortress-monastery in mere days, scattering the heavily reduced Imperial Paladins across their homeworld. The few settlements scattered across the planet came under occupation, with the citizenry enslaved and forced to dig into the earth, searching for something Angron desired.

The enslaved population was supplemented with millions of slaves carried in the bowels of XII warships. For weeks they dug, searching for an artefact buried untold millennia ago, in another age soaked with blood and betrayal. The Imperial Paladins, broken and bloodied but not beaten, attacked Chaos encampments and supply depots, irritating Angron. The primarch unleashed the Chainsworn to hunt them down, nearly wiping out the Paladins but the survivors withdrew further and further into the myriad of tunnels crisscrossing Skalathrax's planetary crust.

After nearly a month the artefact was unearthed. The Chalice of Slaughter was a relic of Khorne, one sealed off from him in a forgotten age. Only a warrior blessed by the Lord of Murder and Rage would be able to even touch it without succumbing to madness. Angron, using the Chalice as a focusing point for Khorne's power, attempted to open a warp rift that would tear apart Skalathrax and present a tangible threat deep inside Imperial territory. The rift would have connected the Skalathrax System to that of Drakaasi, where billions of soldiers, cultists, and daemons awaited, commanded by the rest of the Twelfth Legion. This imposing Khornate army would be a nigh-unstoppable menace that would have seen to the deaths of trillions, direly wounding the Imperium and pleasing the Lord of Skulls to no end.

Unfortunately for Angron, the Imperium intervened. A massive armada made up of Imperial Navy warships and seventeen Astartes Chapter fleets arrived. Commanded by Lord Protector Lion El'Jonson and his brother Vulkan, the Imperial forces engaged the traitor forces in orbit.

The Dark Angels, Salamanders, Lions Sable, Storm Giants, Drake Lords, and two companies of the Grey Knights broke through the World Eater blockade, landing their forces at the ritual site. The tens of millions of ritually murdered innocents had thinned the veil between real-space and the Immaterium, allowing a host of Khornate daemons to break through and assist their Space Marine allies.

The loyalists, reinforced with the few hundred surviving Imperial Paladins that emerged from hiding, assaulted the ritual site. The battle shifted between both sides, each unable to decisively defeat the other. The fate of not only Skalathrax but entire sectors lay in the hands of a few, with each moment of the ritual's continuation spelling encroaching defeat for the Imperium.

Eventually the Lion and Vulkan fought their way through to Angron as the ritual reached its climax. With only minutes to spare, evident by the growing warp tear in Skalathrax's orbit, giving visual of the hellish world of Drakaasi, the two loyal primarchs attacked their traitorous brother in tandem. The Lion Sword and _Dawnbringer_ both partook in wounding Angron, with the Red Angel responding in kind, but it was Solomon Demeter, Chapter Master of the Imperial Paladins, who tipped the scales into the Imperium's favour. Demeter selflessly threw himself into the demigods' melee, sacrificing himself to impale Angron with the Emperor-forged sword _Anagennisi,_ though it cost him his life. Though it did not defeat Angron, it did wound and stun him, allowing the Lion and Vulkan to banish the Lord of Red Sands. The Chalice of Slaughter was then destroyed by Vulkan's thunderhammer, ending the ritual and forever denying Khorne his sought after artefact. The Chalice's fragments were subsequently collected by the Grey Knights for proper disposal.

With Angron's banishment and the Chalice's destruction, the traitors were defeated. The daemons were banished back to the Empyrean, and only a fraction of the World Eaters and Chainsworn were able to escape. Though the First Blood Crusade ended in failure, it nonetheless proved to the Traitor Legions that largescale invasions into the Imperium were feasible, paving the way for greater and more devastating Chaos crusades in the future.

In the aftermath of Skalathrax, the Twelfth Legion fractured. For the first time in over half a millennia the scions of Angron did not have their primogenitor to command them. Without their father, the legionnaires' ruthless ambition and suppressed inter-Legion rivalry rose to the surface, further spurred on by the Blood God's prodding. The World Eaters splintered into hundreds of warbands, fighting each other as fiercely as they had their enemies in years past.

Amidst the vying warlords, three rose to prominence: Crixus Dreadaxe, Nordas Vyre, and Khârn. Crixus desired to become the next War Commander of Chaos, directly competing with Tyberius Sakaeron. Vyre forsook Angron and wanted to unite the Legion under him, deeming the primarch's right to rule invalid. Only Khârn and like-minded Astartes remained loyal to Angron.

While Crixus eventually formed a major power bloc in the Eye of Terror that competed with Sakaeron for decades, he would eventually fail, killed by the Second War Commander in a duel. In World Eater-controlled territory, Vyre and Khârn fought each other for decades, their factions growing bolder and more destructive in the attempt to assert dominance. Things came to a head on Drakaasi when Vyre launched a planetary invasion to subdue Khârn and solidify his claim to Legion Master.

At first the battle swung in Vyre's favour as the former captain led thousands of his warriors into attacking Liberty Stand, Angron's personal fortress that Khârn ruled from as regent. For weeks Drakaasi basked in fratricidal war, millions dying daily.

Just as Vyre neared victory, the Lord of the Red Sands returned to his squabbling sons.

 _Khârn could not believe his eyes. Angron walked out of the warp tear, appearing just as he had years ago on Skalathrax, clad in black-red armour and wielding the Black Blade. Behind the primarch the true warp where Kharneth's Brass Citadel resided was visible. It reeked of glorious victory, untold amounts of blood and death, with the clang of weapons a beautiful cacophony that never ceased. The Blood God's Mark and sigil of the Legion were prevalent as the primarch marched towards them._

 _Vyre, whom Khârn had been duelling in the Skull Keep's throneroom, took a step backwards. Around them were their warriors, clad in Legion blood-red and brass, many littering the ground, while the remainder viewed their enemies warily as their primogenitor returned. Khârn planted_ Feddekar _onto the bone-white ground. While he could detect Vyre's unease, Khârn felt nothing but relief and satisfaction flowing through his veins. Angron had returned to once again lead his sons._

 _Angron stood in front of them. Looking at the Eighth Captain, he spoke in his gruff no-nonsense way. "It gladdens me to see you. You have done well in my absence."_

 _Khârn tilted his head slightly, basking in what was great praise from the Gladiator King. "Thank you, sire. It pleases me to see you return to us. We were lost without you."_

 _Angron looked at Vyre, pale golden eyes flashing with displeasure. "Clearly."_

" _Sire, I can explain-" began Vyre but Angron bisected him with a fluid swing of the Black Blade, faster than even transhuman physiology could track. Nordas Vyre fell to the ground, dead. The primarch returned his attention back to Khârn._

" _Let it be known," Angron announced, voice carrying easily through the chamber, "that my Equerry is now also First Captain of the Twelfth Legion and will henceforth be known as Khârn the Unifier."_

The Legion civil war ended with Angron's return. For the next ten thousand years the Twelfth Primarch rarely left Drakaasi, only doing so to lead Blood Crusades or to visit the Blood God's court. Angron's warriors have been noted to be hyperactive in the Long War's prosecution, many either joining Sakaeron's Vengeance Crusades or leading their own black crusades against the Imperium. Countless wars that have plagued the Imperium can trace their initiators to the Red Angel's sons, the Sabbat Worlds Crusade and the First War of Armageddon being some of the more recent ones. Yet despite this, the Legion has not acted in total solidarity since the Battle of Skalathrax. This appears to be changing as the Dark Millennium comes to a close as even hated rivals now fight alongside one another at their primarch's behest. Angron has agreed to support War Commander Sakaeron in his Eleventh Vengeance Crusade and readies the vast armies at his disposal for the war that is whispered by seers and madmen to herald the Time of Ending.

 **Organisation-**

The organisation of the Twelfth Legion did not change overly so in the transition from War Hound to World Eater. Chapters were renamed Echelons though they were rarely fielded in their entirety. Companies were the preferred unit, with numbers varying from a hundred to even a thousand on occasion. Since the Legion Wars, the World Eaters' structure has decentralised to warbands of various sizes, loyal to none but the primarch.

When the Legion fractured at the end of the First Blood Crusade, only Khârn prevented a total collapse, such as what happened to the Alpha Legion after the death of their primarch during the Great Scouring. And when Angron returned, he rewarded Khârn for his loyalty, making him First Captain, a post vacant since the Siege of Terra, and given the moniker 'the Unifier' by Angron himself.

The XII, before and after their fall to Chaos, were legendary shock assault warriors, matched only by the Blood Angels. Though the World Eaters reaped a bloody toll wherever they fought, they did so in a highly effective and disciplined manner, moving and attacking as a cohesive unit rather than as glory-seeking individuals. Apothecaries are treated with great respect in the XII, for it is they who patch up the wounded, allowing them to fight again another day. The Librarians on the other hand were long distrusted in the Legion, only improving slightly under Angron who recognised their contributions. This distrust persisted during the Heresy but did not prevent the Librarians from serving with distinction. Now known as Blood Mages in the 41st Millennium, these Astartes psykers are few and far between but are able to call upon a multitude of Khornate daemons to battle, easily tilting the balance of a campaign in the World Eaters favour.

Within the Twelfth Legion there are many specialised formations. The Devourers, the elite protectors of the primarch, are one of the more coveted but its members are selected by Angron alone and as a result must meet his exacting standards. Other specialised units, such as the Triarii, also exist but it is the Rampagers which are the most infamous.

Becoming a Rampager was not deemed an honour, rather it was punishment bequeathed to those that displeased or disobeyed Angron. Implanted with a modified Butcher's Nails, the Rampagers were deployed to the worst combat zones during the Great Crusade where simple attrition saw their numbers halved with each battle. To those whose penance was deemed fulfilled by Angron was given the option to return to their original company and have the Nails removed. Surprisingly many refused, preferring to retain the Nails as they gifted heightened strength and ferocity. When the Heresy began, the Rampagers were referred to as 'ruthless Berserkers" by Fulgrim and the name stuck. As the centuries passed and Angron became less and less interested in the direct affairs of his Legion, delegating much to Khârn, the numbers of Berserkers have raised steadily as they believe the pros far outweigh the cons. Many of the more devout World Eaters voluntarily hammer the Nails into their skull, believing it brings them closer to their god. It is unknown if there is any truth to it but many believe it does.

A unique auxiliary unit to the XII is that of the Blood Pact. While all Legions used mortal soldiers in one form or another during the Great Crusade, many hailing from primarch homeworlds, the XII preferred to use their own mortal army separate from the Imperial Army. Called the Blood Pact, as they were bonded to the XII by oaths made in blood, these mortals were considered amongst the greatest non-Astartes soldiers the Imperium had to offer, often being compared to the Old Hundred and Solar Auxilia. Its members were selected from worlds the Legion recruited from and was subsequently trained by the World Eaters, ensuring the Blood Pact's loyalty to Angron was absolute.

During the Heresy the Blood Pact was greatly expanded from its original few hundred thousand to over ten million, and has only grown since, with some Imperial strategists predicting the Blood Pact numbers anywhere from thirty to forty-five million. Every World Eater warband, regardless of size and power, can field at least one Blood Pact regiment alongside the various hosts of Khornate cultists that flock to the legionnaires.

Something odd to be found in the Legion's ranks is the Chainsworn, former Raven Guard outcasts that swore allegiance to Angron during the Great Crusade. Originally numbering around ten thousand when they joined the XII, the Chainsworn now number less than four hundred as they refuse to bring in new recruits into their brotherhood. Despite relatively low numbers, they are among the fiercest and most loyal legionnaires in Angron's arsenal. They work hand-in-hand with the Devourers to patrol and protect Liberty Stand. Outside of this duty, they typically act as advance scouts, using skills honed over ten millennia of endless war to circumvent enemy defences and wreak havoc behind enemy lines, attacking from the shadows and just as quickly returning.

 **Combat Doctrine-**

The Legion has always preferred close combat over ranged combat. This is abundantly clear in the high proportion of Assault Marines the XII has fielded since its inception. After the discovery of Angron this proportion grew even more. By the Heresy's outbreak, the Twelfth Legion consisted almost exclusively of Assault and Tactical Marines, with only a smattering of Devastators. Since their relocation to the Eye of Terror this has not changed, but many World Eater warlords will vie with one another to secure the services of a Devastator squad due to their undeniable value. Some powerful World Eater warbands can boast several dozen Devastators among their ranks, making them the envy of their brothers.

 **Recruitment-**

Unlike some Legions, such as the Death Guard and Sons of Fulgrim, the World Eaters recruited from a large selection of Imperial worlds during the Great Crusade, almost exclusively worlds that were lifted from the clutches of slavery, whether it be alien or human overlords. This guaranteed that dozens of star systems swore loyalty to Angron. It is of no surprise then that almost all of these worlds fought for the traitors.

Since the Legion relocated to the Great Eye, the Legion has recruited heavily amongst its slave population, as well as slaves taken in battle against their fellow traitors and in campaigns against the Imperium of Man. The trials and obstacles laid against the Initiates are notably brutal, but those that survive ensure the strongest ascend the ranks to Neophyte and subsequently battle-brother.

 **Homeworld-**

After Angron's discovery, Nuceria became the official homeworld of the XII. Despite this, the world of Bodt was the primary muster point for the World Eaters, becoming the homeworld in all but name for the duration of the Great Crusade's second half.

After Nuceria was subject to _Exterminatus_ during the Scouring, and Bodt quarantined, the new homeworld of the XII became Drakaasi, aDaemon World located deep in the Eye of Terror. This is a world covered in an ocean of blood with city-covered island chains dotting throughout the crimson sea. Here, life is unforgiving and harsh, allowing only the most hardened and brutal to survive. It is on this world where Angron resides in his bitterly ironically named Liberty Stand fortress, planning wars and developing strategies that have bled the Imperium for over ten thousand years.

Every city on Drakaasi can boast an arena where slaves, soldiers, and Astartes can compete for glory and fame, but it is Angron's Redstone Coliseum that is easily considered the greatest. Modelled after the Desh'ean Coliseum, though far larger, the Redstone is where Angron allows grudges to be settled with blade and fist. It is also where Sakaeron convinced the Red Angel to join the upcoming Eleventh Vengeance Crusade, proving himself worthy to command the World Eaters.

 _Angron watched closely as Sakaeron parried and struck down another daemon. The fluid grace, the lethal ease with which he carried himself, all bespoke Sakaeron's heritage. While once this would have made Angron snarl in disgust, it now intrigued him. So this was Tyberius Sakaeron, the Second War Commander. Angron had met him fleetingly during the Invasion of Deliverance, it was truly remarkable how far he had come._

 _The Heir of Fulgrim struck fear and awe across the galaxy, rallying forces to his side not seen since the Heresy. Three days ago Sakaeron had approached Angron just like he had the other primarchs. He beseeched Angron and his sons to fight for him as a Legion. Angron agreed but only if Sakaeron proved himself in combat against eight powerful daemons of Khorne. Sakaeron agreed and for three days he fought them without pause. Sakaeron's skill with a blade and the gods' favour granted the War Commander an endurance rivalling that of a pre-ascended primarch. One by one the daemons fell to_ Fireblade _. As the last daemon was cut down, Sakaeron, wounded and covered in blood, turned to Angron's raised pavilion. The Astartes nodded, both acknowledging Angron's rule here and asking the question without speaking: 'Will you join me?'_

 _Angron could have ordered the War Commander to be shot, his bodyguard slain with ease, but Angron declined to do so. Sakaeron had united more than warbands and warlords; he had united Legions and primarchs to fight once again under a single banner. The Heir had matched his father. Angron would not jeopardise the potential fall of the Imperium to satisfy the desire to kill a son of Fulgrim. Where Fulgrim failed, Sakaeron may yet succeed. And regardless whether the forces of Chaos triumphed over those of the Emperor, there would be enough blood and violence to sate the Lord of Skulls._

 _Angron looked down at Sakaeron and nodded back._

 **Beliefs-**

The World Eaters Legion, once paragons of equality and protectors of the weak are now some of the more brutal oppressors in the galaxy. Such a reversal of ideals might strike many as odd and contradictory but from Angron's point of view it is nothing but a natural evolution of his philosophy.

Angron once believed that all men and women were equal, that all should be given freedom. This was highlighted when many of the Imperium's anti-slave laws were penned by him, some still used in M41. But as the final years of the Great Crusade came to a close, many worlds that were liberated by the World Eaters fell into serfdom, most willingly. This disgusted Angron as he saw the serfs as nothing but spineless cowards who wanted to be told what to do as they did not have the will to choose their own fate. When the Fulgrimian Heresy began, this viewpoint went even further and by war's end, Angron viewed Mankind quite differently than he did during Nuceria's unification. Now the primarch willingly enslaves billions, knowing that those who wish for freedom will fight for it, no matter the cost. Therefore when slave rebellions occur, of which there are no lacking of in Angron's domain, the strongest rebels that survive the brutal suppression are then given freedom by Angron and either become Blood Pact recruits or for the ones still young enough, made into Astartes Initiates.

 **Gene-seed-**

Angron's gene-seed had been considered pure and adaptive during the Great Crusade. Though it has lost the former due to variety of genetic degradations and warp mutations as a result of residing in the Eye, the latter still holds true. Whether implanted into a slave boy whose ancestors had lived in the Eye for generations or the blueblood child of a vaunted noble family in the Imperium, the gene-seed of the Red Angel takes hold.

 **Battlecry-**

The Twelfth Legion quietly and subtly abandoned, "For the Emperor!" as a battlecry after Angron's discovery, preferring "For Angron!" and "For the Twelfth!" during the following century. During the Great Scouring, as Khorne influence began to perverse the once-noble Legion, "Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!" quickly became the favoured battlecry of the World Eaters and has remained so since.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** At long last, the World Eaters Index is finally here! This Index wouldn't be half as good if not for my beta readers: Antony444/antoine, Raziel, machine3589, and Nemris. These four really helped refined the Index to its current state and I can't thank them enough.

There is also a new artwork piece drawn by Nemris over on DeviantArt. Be sure to check it out!

There is also a Fulgrimian Heresy story written by ArisenMoon, centered on the Silver Skulls Chapter, titled 'The Silver Skulls.' Be sure to check him and it out!

Thank you all for your patience and support for this story. Be sure to leave a review letting me know what you thought of this chapter and/or the story as a whole. If you have any questions you're more than welcome to PM me. Next chapter will be the Ultramarines Index. See you then.


	35. Ultramarines

**Ultramarines Index – Heralds of Reformation**

 **Origins-**

Prodigy, demigod, consul, Battle-King, Avenging Son, primarch, and Lord Warden; all titles the Thirteenth Son of the Emperor would hold in time. But before he became any of these, he was first a child, genetically engineered by the Master of Mankind. This child, before he led armies across the galaxy and rebuilt a broken empire, was interred in a gestation-capsule that was stolen away by the Ruinous Powers. This capsule cascaded through the Empyrean, eventually landing on the mountainous world of Macragge, in a forest not far from a major population centre. There he was discovered by a party of nobles.

* * *

 _The boy was pale, eyes steely blue and hair the colour of freshly harvested wheat. Though surrounded by guards, he looked not the part of prisoner but of a ruler, a general without equal and someone inherently wise. He appeared to be eight or nine but Konor Guilliman highly doubted that was his age. No mere child could carry such authority with apparent ease._

 _Konor smiled at the boy from atop his war-horse, feeling relief that the dream he had the night before had not been madness. He had dreamed of Hera's Fall in the Valley of Laponis, and at its centre would be a boy, a child who would forever alter life on Macragge though whether it be for good or bad, Konor was not yet sure. While his fellow consul Gallan derided him for the dream, Konor had set out anyway with guards and allied noblemen to see whether the dream had been true or false, risking political fallout if he had been wrong, his enemies in the capital would have called him age-addled and deranged._

 _But as the boy stood there, Konor felt relief that the dream had been proven real. The boy nodded respectfully but did not kneel. To his right the captain of the guard clicked his tongue in anger, about to order the boy be made to show obedience but Konor raised his hand to thwart such archaic measures._

 _The boy only looked at him, unblinking, respectful, but not cowed by his authority. The senators and other high-ranking nobles began whispering to each other but Konor quietened them with a gesture._

" _Who are you?" Konor asked, voice nearly drowned by the waterfalls._

 _The boy pondered the question, before responding words that would change the course of history, "The future."_

* * *

Consul Konor had found and adopted the boy, naming him Roboute, meaning 'Great One,' believing the primarch would be pivotal in years to come, of which he would be proven correct in time. As the next few years passed by, the primarch grew both in mind and body, quickly outperforming and outwitting his trainers and teachers, astounding them with his genius. Not only did the primarch excel in the military academies that Magna Macragge Civitas was famous for, but also mastered poetry, art, and philosophy by the age of ten, and began to contribute vast tomes filled with insight and brilliance that are to this day taught in the war-colleges of Ultramar.

But not all was well, for Consul Gallan, long a political rival of Konor Guilliman was afraid and viciously jealous of the Guillimans, fearing the threat they posed to his wealth and powerbase. Therefore, in secret, he forged a pact with the wildmen of Illyrium to attack his country's border settlements. The Illyrians, distrusting and jealous of their neighbour, eagerly took advantage of the offer and attacked a half-dozen towns, razing them to the ground before withdrawing back to their inhospitable mountainous country, confident no army could conquer them.

Consul Konor, frail with age, despatched Roboute Guilliman at the head of a massive Macraggian army. Some scoffed at appointing the untested young man as commander of an army of war, but Konor was insistent, reminding his detractors of his foster son's skills in the simulated war games and having the respect of the military. As a result, the primarch led his army to Illyrium.

For centuries the Macraggians had been unable to truly conquer and pacify the Illyrian threat, all previous forms of occupation had proven too costly in coins and lives to maintain. The Illyrian warrior, while universally not as well-equipped or supplied, was a fierce opponent, savage, unforgiving and determined. Yet despite these traits, Roboute Guilliman's army conquered and pacified Illyrium within months, earning the respect of his former enemies. As a show of their newfound allegiance, the Illyrians told Roboute of Gallan's treachery.

Concerned for his people and father, the primarch marched his tired army home, only to find Magna Macragge Civitas in near-ruins. After Roboute's departure, Gallan and a cabal of like-minded nobles launched a coup against Konor, killing him and many of his allies, and imprisoning Tarasha Euten, Konor's Seneschal and lover as well as effectively being Roboute's foster mother.

Roboute's forces quickly defeated the few units loyal to Consul Gallan and stormed the Senate Chamber where Gallan stayed, knowing defeat was inevitable. It is known the consul begged for mercy, saying Konor was killed by Gallan's troops in an accident and were never ordered to do it, but whether or not these allegations were true or false mattered little to Roboute, now the sole Guilliman.

The primarch dragged Gallan up into the Crown Mountains, his army and the citizens of the city following in a show of support and to see justice done. It was there, on a rock that dominated the waterfalls where Guilliman was discovered, that Gallan was executed for treason, murder, and a host of other unforgivable crimes. The place of execution forever became known as Gallan's Rock, immortalising the greatest traitor Macragge ever knew and Guilliman gained the moniker of the Avenging Son thereafter.

Guilliman promised to his people that things would change and indeed they did. Magna Macragge Civitas had long been ruled by men and women chosen not by their skill in governance or keen sense of justice but rather their wealth and high birth. This system was torn down, rebuilt from the ground up to be a meritocracy. The wealth Gallan and his cabal had was used to fund the city's recovery and expansion, as well as the establishment of dozens of major institutions of the arts and sciences, with the modernisation and expansion of the military academies also taking place during this time. The cabal's extensive lands were taken over by the state, gifted out to loyal officers and administrators who had proven themselves worthy of their position and earning Guilliman's respect.

From his foundation in Magna Macragge Civitias, Guilliman rapidly expanded to neighbouring lands, using his veteran Macraggian heavy infantry with Illyrian auxiliaries who excelled at skirmishes. These wars earned him the honoured title of Battle-King, the last and greatest to ever exist in the planet's history. After a new country was conquered, its people and resources were quickly and efficiently integrated under Guilliman's rule, becoming a vassal initially then subsequently fellow countrymen, winning the hearts and minds of the conquered peoples by using his natural charisma.

During Guilliman's unification of Macragge, lost technologies were rediscovered, further fuelling research that had long been encouraged under first Konor's and even more so under Roboute's rule. By the time Macragge had been united under the Ultima banner of Magna Macragge Civitas, the recolonization of the Macragge System had begun and within a few short years nearby star systems were integrated into the newly founded Realm of Ultramar.

Ultramar expanded rapidly, encompassing nearly thirty systems with dozens more soon to join before contact with the Imperium was made. A massive Imperial armada, spearheaded by the Emperor's _Bucephelus_ , arrived to the Macragge System. The Master of Mankind beckoned Guilliman to meet Him aboard His flagship and it was there that father met son.

* * *

 _They had talked for hours, alone, just he and Him in private quarters fit for a primarch. When he had entered the room, the Romanii numeral XIII was acid-etched into the outer door, declaring whose it belonged to._

 _Guilliman looked around his room, knowing there were other such chambers spread throughout the flagship, some having been personalised over the years by those they were intended for. His was bland, functional, and sparse of decoration yet in time it would be modified per his wishes._

" _There are others like me?" he asked, still surprised by the news._

" _Yes, Roboute. Nineteen others. You are the thirteenth created and the ninth found." The Emperor appeared mighty, tall and broad, gold plating covering His body though head remained bare where long black hair fell past His shoulders and eyes the colour of gold looked upon him kindly, inquisitively. Though they looked nothing alike, Guilliman knew this was indeed his father, feeling a kinship with him that he had never felt with Konor._

" _Why create us? To fight in your wars?"_

" _I created you and your brothers to protect and guide humanity. While I am powerful, I am but one where there needs to be many. All of your brethren are generals but each of you has a unique purpose. One is my general of generals, another my architect, and another my justicar."_

" _And what am I to be?"_

" _What do you think?" A small smile tugged at the Emperor's mouth, "What are your strengths?"_

 _Guilliman thought of Ultramar, of its well-ordered cities, clean water and plentiful food, its organised and regimented spirit._

" _Statecraft," he finally admitted._

 _The Emperor nodded knowingly as if He knew all along that was the answer. "You are the statesman, the builder of empires."_

* * *

Guilliman quickly pledged allegiance to the Master of Mankind and was immediately awarded command of the Thirteenth Legion. The XIII, known informally as the Warborn, were relatively unimpressive compared to many of their fellow Legions. They did not have the accumulated glory of the XVI, nor the swordsmanship of the III, or the lupine savagery of the VI. The only notable feature the XIII held was near-unrivalled gene-seed purity. This allowed the Warborn to replace the heavy losses it had suffered in prior campaigns where it had been used primarily as a mass assault force which, though successful, saw to many thousands of legionnaire casualties.

Guilliman sought to change this, wishing to make his Legion one of adaptability and flexible organisation, removing the brute force doctrine the Warborn had favoured in the Great Crusade's early decades. Within months of reforming and reorganising his sons, the XIII was ready to return to the Crusade's frontlines and Guilliman had a campaign in mind that would cement the new era to come for his newly styled Ultramarines.

 **Great Crusade-**

Where many Legions took in Initiates from specific sources on Terra such as geographic regions or conquered human empires, the XIII took this a step further and recruited across the width and breadth of the Throneworld, choosing from the sub-equatorial maglev clans of Panpocro, the war families of the Saragon Enclave, the proud Midafrik Hive Oligarchy, and finally the anthropophagic tribes of the Caucasus Wastes. Varied in culture and origin, the only similarity uniting them was the proficiency for war as these lands were some of the last to be brought under the Emperor's rule, having denied Unification for years with ferocious skill, having never truly surrendered or negotiated a peace settlement as so many others had but rather brought to heel as their peoples neared extinction, their resistance broken by lack of numbers.

The after-action reports of Emperor-sworn forces that fought these warrior-cultures spoke of their resilience and skill in snatching victory from the jaws of defeat, and it was this that made them promising recruits for the nascent Legiones Astartes. It has been hypothesised that another reason for the recruitment of these populations was to fully rid Terra of rebellious elements, recruiting the youth into the Space Marine Legions whilst simultaneously becoming the death-knell of those who long defied the Emperor so tenaciously. Whatever the truth of the matters, by the time the Emperor had forged the Imperium with Mars under the Treaty of Olympus Mons, the Thirteenth Legion was eight thousand strong and ready to fight in the final battles of the Unification Wars against the various threats that infested the Sol System. Among the dozens of battles fought, most notable were the First Pacification of Luna, securing the gene-cults and their mysteries for the later expansion of the Legions, and the Sedna Scourge which saw the vile xenos of the false planet become naught but ash under the ceramite boot of the Emperor's Angels of Death.

The Great Crusade's initial campaigns were aimed at resource-rich or densely populated sectors, wishing to acquire both for the Crusade. Many worlds of Segmentum Solar voluntarily joined the Imperium, yet some resisted under the false belief of their own superiority, and even more were under the thrall of xenos or the tyrannical. One by one they were defeated, conquered, or liberated: all brought to compliance. Discovery of Horus Lupercal on Cthonia in those early years allowed Imperial expansion to double but also thinned out the Legions who had not yet reached the imposing size they later would. The Warborn, now numbering over thirty thousand legionnaires, fought together in a massive Expeditionary Fleet, the 12th, that conquered vast amounts of territory to be incorporated into the Imperium.

This included the Osiris Cluster. The Cluster had originally been brought to compliance with ease, its populations almost universally accepting the Imperial Truth and joining the Emperor's Domain bloodlessly. However, shortly after compliance a mass rebellion broke out against Imperial authority. The populace seemed to be taken over by a madness of the mind, a madness that spread to the garrisoning Army regiments and Administratum officials left to govern the Cluster. The XIII, their honour stained by the rebellion, quickly returned to bring the Emperor's judgment to the treacherous and restore Imperial order.

Arriving to the Cluster's capital, Septus XII, Legion Master Gren Vosotho predicted a swift campaign. The rebels lacked any real void navy and their principal armaments were looted from Army depots, nothing that could seriously contend with Astartes. The XIII deployed to planet's surface, largely around the primary hive city of Cassabet. The moment the legionnaires landed, their drop-zones became flooded with dead-eyed rebels, ranging from local PDF to young children, attacking and battering the legionnaires endlessly. As could be expected from poorly armed mortals attacking the transhuman warriors few legionnaires were killed, most dying by mining det-charges repurposed for suicide bombers. Still the tide of the enemy was never ending, causing the legionnaires to mag-lock their empty bolters and unsheathe sword, axe and shield.

* * *

 _The rebels, those unwashed and deluded masses, perished under his sword and shield, their blood hissing on his sword's power field. Legion Master Gren Vosotho parried a feeble swing from a large mortal swinging a sharpened iron stake, then caved in the rebel's chest with his shield and continued further in the hive city, leaving the man to die. Like all the others before him, the rebel did not cry out in pain, merely gurgled blood. An enemy who feared neither death nor pain was not something Vosotho had faced in humans before. Legionnaires were made to not know fear but as Vosotho killed more and more of the enemy and heard no screaming or pleas of mercy he admitted to himself that it was unsettling._

 _This was not what he imagined. When word of the rebellion reached him, Vosotho assumed it had been ambitious, greedy individuals who threw the sector into open sedition, but upon arrival the Osiris populace seemed controlled, like a puppet on unseen strings. There was more going on here than met the eye and he intended to find out what it was._

" _Forward!" the Legion Master bellowed over the vox, cutting through a haggle of teens with the same dead-eyed look that all on the planet had. "Forward for the glory of the Thirteenth and the Emperor!"_

* * *

For hours the Astartes fought, slowly approaching the hive centre. It was then, just as Legion Master Vosotho arrived to the Governor's Spire, that five xenos warships emerged from the system star's corona. They were immense goliaths of little understood construction, dwarfing even battle-barges. Hour-glass in design, with their outer structures endlessly rotating and turning, they approached the far larger Imperial fleet. Vosotho, informed of the arrival of the aliens, ordered a tactical withdrawal back to the fleet as a precaution, realising the trap.

Though few in number the xenos warships proved terrifying in battle, crippling and destroying Imperial vessels with contemptuous ease, cutting through the 12th Expeditionary Fleet like a vibro-knife through butter. Vosotho, having returned to the fleet, knew that if the XIII stayed they would be exterminated. He ordered the bulk of the fleet to retreat and took command of the sacrificial rear guard, passing Legion command to the next ranking officer, Marius Gage. Vosotho and the rear guard died heroically, able to destroy one of the xenos warships and damaged another, while the rest of the 12th Expeditionary Fleet withdrew to Imperial-held space.

Due to the heavy losses suffered in the failed attempt at supressing the Osiris Rebellion and the lack of sufficiently powerful Imperial forces nearby, the Emperor ordered a quarantine of the Osiris Cluster until a retribution fleet could be assembled. The xenos were coined the name Osirian Psybirds by the Administratum, and all survivors of the conflict were thoroughly debriefed. Morale low, bloodied and ashamed at their failure, the XIII edged towards despair, having lost over six thousand Space Marines in the failed suppression. Fortunately for these dispirited warriors, news soon reached them that their gene-sire had been found.

Guilliman, after uniting with his sons and reading their war-annals, knew that for his sons' morale and confidence to recover, they must defeat the Psybirds and retake Osiris. As the primarch accustomed himself with Imperial technology and tactics, and the Legion began to adopt their primarch's philosophy and adopt his adaptable military doctrine wholeheartedly, the Thirteenth Legion deployed to just outside the Osiris Quarantine Zone.

* * *

 _Roboute Guilliman looked out over the hololithic projector that detailed his fleet assets forming up around the Mandeville point that would lead the XIII back to the Osiris Cluster. It was strange, he thought, to see where he was now. He had long concluded that he had been created, not born in the conventional sense, and therefore knew his creator was out somewhere amongst the stars. But not even his most fantastical theoreticals could have readily prepared him for the Emperor and the Imperium. Already tens of thousands of worlds and ever growing, the size alone was enough to cause even Guilliman to pause. He knew the role destined for him in his father's Imperium after the Crusade had been won and humanity's Manifest Destiny secured. Let the others conquer or lead armies across the vastness of space but Guilliman would be the one to hold it all together._

 _He had yet to meet any of his brothers, though had read extensively of them and talked to the Emperor about them. He had a feeling he would like most of them, particularly Horus, Dorn and Manus. Their ways of war and philosophies intrigued Guilliman. He would have to run simulations with them and discuss matters in person to get a better feel for their personalities._

" _Lord," came Marius Gage's voice from behind. Guilliman tilted his head slightly to show he was listening. The Ultramarines' First Master continued, "The fleet is ready for warp translation, lord. We await your order."_

 _Guilliman was clad in the_ Armour of Reason _, advanced power armour gifted to him by his father. A pearl white cloak fell from his shoulder, bearing a golden Ultima in its centre. He turned, hearing gasps from several of his sons. They had not become accustomed to his presence, not yet, perhaps not ever. They fell to their knees in supplication but he gestured for them to rise. They adored him and Guilliman would earn that adoration and mould it into deep respect for he was not a god but a being to guide Mankind forevermore._

 _The XIII had suffered greatly in recent years, their suffering having peaked during the failed suppression of Osiris. The shame would be shed, the honour returned and in the glory to come he would cement his rule over the XIII and become the father they needed to rebuild and reform them that would best serve the Imperium._

" _We have suffered gravely here, mistakes were made" Guilliman told his three Chapter Masters and their assembled captains. "But mistakes are inevitable in life. They are something to be learned from. And we have learned, my sons. The Legion once left this Cluster in defeat but it shall now enter and seize victory. For the Emperor."_

* * *

The XIII entered the Cluster, supplemented by Army and Mechanicum forces, but spearheaded by legionnaires. Just inside the Quarantine Zone they found a single derelict vessel, empty of life but with cryptic warnings and pleas for help covering its interiors, written in blood. Guilliman led his sons and allies deeper into the Cluster. Within days they found two of the hour glass xenos vessels. Where before in the Battle of Septus XII the Imperium was unprepared for the technological superiority of the xenos and their nearly indestructible ships, the 12th Expeditionary Fleet was now prepared. New tactics had been adopted, lessons learned, and now a primarch led them and nothing could impede their imminent victory.

Highly coordinated, crisscrossing lanes of weapons fire tore into the two ships. Guilliman orchestrated their destruction and the losses suffered were minimal, only a half-dozen warships. For the next several months the XIII scoured the Osiris Cluster, reclaiming it system by system, noting that most worlds were bereft of life, their populations having massacred each other in the months since the Quarantine was put into place. The few worlds that held life were purged in a storm of fire, bolter, and blade to ensure whatever control the Psybirds held over the populace would not spread. Few of the xenos warships were discovered, and all were destroyed upon discovery, and despite the losses suffered it was clear the Imperium was winning.

In the course of retaking Osiris, Guilliman despatched scout ships to attempt to find the Psybird homeworld. Most of these were lost, destroyed by the xenos, and the few survivors reported occasional xenos fleet movements or nothing at all. It wasn't until the final weeks of the war that a scout ship, the _Light of Terra_ , entered a star system via random warp jumping and discovered a world densely populated with Psybirds, with heavy industry in the planet's high orbit and asteroid belt. The crew concluded that this was the homeworld of the Psybirds. The _Light of Terra_ quickly reported this to Guilliman who ordered the deployment of the entire Ultramarines Legion to the system. The legionnaires, confident in their primogenitor and in the campaign waged so far, were eager to avenge their dead brothers.

With their orbital defences crippled, the Ultramarine fleet launched Life-Eater Virus-tipped warheads into the planet's atmosphere followed by lance batteries to ignite the gaseous fumes, incinerating all life on the planet. Following the extermination of the hated xenos, Guilliman oversaw the repopulation of the Cluster with Imperial citizens and after its successful recolonization, departed to continue the Great Crusade.

Under Guilliman the Ultramarines brought more worlds to compliance than all others barring the Sixteenth Legion. The worlds conquered by the XIII were not simply forgotten after the campaign as several Legions did, but rather rebuilt and re-educated to welcome the Imperium's protective embrace. While some Legions, such as the Space Wolves and Death Guard, considered the reconstruction of conquered worlds to be beneath them, the Ultramarines deemed it and governance to be as important as combat. To secure the compliant populations' loyalty, new and improved defence systems were created, industry and infrastructure rebuilt and expanded, and just laws put in place to ensure the world remained stable, productive and loyal.

Though all primarchs participated in some form of empire-building during the Great Crusade, it was Guilliman who established the most extensive and productive, his Realm of Ultramar reaching five hundred worlds prior to the Heresy. The Realm of Ultramar did not grow to its pre-Heresy peak without contention from others, some primarchs, others Administratum officials, notably Malcador the Sigillite.

The Regent of Terra was ever cautious of over-ambitious individuals and primarchs were no exception. The Ultramar Method of governance conflicted sharply with several aspects of Malcador's Administratum and the two hotly debated for decades until the Council of Akre. While the other primarchs and the Emperor debated the garrisoning of legionnaires on troublesome worlds to prevent the Imperium from collapsing in on itself, Guilliman and Malcador held lengthy discussions for weeks at the Emperor's behest. The two Imperial leaders resolved their issues after lengthy discussions, the two forming a compromise that eased Ultramar-Administratum relations and saw to an increasing efficiency within the burgeoning Imperial bureaucracy.

Guilliman was widely liked and admired among his brothers, having close relations with several, many being dubbed the Dauntless Few, while having the respect of most of the others. The only two that Guilliman held poor relations with was Lorgar Aurelian of the Word Bearers and Alpharius of the Alpha Legion.

Lorgar's enmity originated from the public shaming of him, his Legion, and their religious belief that the Emperor was a god on the Shrine World of Khur. It was there where the Battle-King of Macragge destroyed Khur's Perfect City of Monarchia and in its ashes the Urizen and his sons were reprimanded and humiliated by the object of their devotion. Afterwards, Guilliman attempted to approach his Colchisian brother and explain his actions, to clarify it wasn't personal but these fell on deaf ears and Lorgar quickly left Khur, refusing to talk amicably with his Macraggian brother. As a result of this, Guilliman had inadvertently contributed to the fall of Lorgar and earned the Urizen's enmity.

While the fallout between the XIII and the XVII developed as a result of orders, the relationship between the XIII and the XX came about as a difference in military doctrine. When the Last Primarch was discovered in the latter half of the Crusade's second century, he struck up a strong friendship with Horus and fought alongside the future Warmaster for several years. When Alpharius eventually left his secondment to Horus, he underwent several operations that Guilliman deemed too risky and overcomplicated. The Thirteenth Primarch believed Alpharius was wasting his legionnaires away due to layers of secrecy and seemingly contradicting orders and a too fluid command structure. Guilliman, in an attempt to help his less experienced brother, wrote an extensive memorandum that made suggestions on how the Twentieth Legion should modify its tactics and deployments.

Though Guilliman meant well, his criticisms were poorly received by the Last Primarch who felt insulted and needlessly critiqued and doubled down on his preferred methods in spite of his brothers' opposition. Guilliman's disagreements with Alpharius came to a head after the Tesstra Prime Compliance in which the XX allowed the defenders weeks to fortify their positions. Though the world inevitably surrendered after the Alpha Legion launched its crippling strike, casualties were higher as a result of Alpharius' approach and the campaign was deemed inefficient by many primarchs. Though many admired the skill such highly coordinated subterfuge and misdirection required to carry out correctly, those same admirers admit that the XX and its strategies were complex for complexity's sake. These criticisms soured any potential friendship between Alpharius and Guilliman, which would have serious consequences years later.

As the Imperium expanded, it encountered many grave threats to its survival, forcing massive military campaigns to eliminate these threats before they threatened Mankind with extermination. The Rangdan Xenocides was the first major extinction-level threat while the Ullanor Crusade was a second one in the making. The Ork empire centred on Ullanor had spent centuries forming and growing in strength and Imperial analysts predicted in another ten years it would have attacked the Imperium and seriously mauled the Emperor's Realm. The Master of Mankind decided to go on the offensive first. He called for six of his sons to join Him for the campaign and all six answered the call, bringing forth the full strength of their Legions.

The Emperor crafted a daring plan in conjunction with Horus and His other sons. Though it held many dangers, if successful it would have destroyed the Ullanor empire in a matter of weeks rather than the years it was projected to take. The World Eaters and Ultramarines assaulted the Ullanor Cluster's outer worlds, while the White Scars launched deep raids to draw Ork reserves, allowing the Emperor to lead the Luna Wolves, Blood Angels and Imperial Fists onto the empire's capital world. Angron's and Guilliman's Legions were to tie down the bulk of the Ork hordes and to do so effectively the two Legions attacked two score worlds in tandem. Though others may have called it over-ambitious and exceedingly risky it was deemed well worth the risk as it prevented millions of Orks from reinforcing their capital world. Angron and Guilliman coordination and cooperation with each other were already well known throughout the Great Crusade, the respect they held for each other obvious to any casual observer, and this camaraderie between the two primarchs and their sons allowed the campaign in the outer worlds to be waged with skill rarely matched.

Most worlds were assaulted with combined Ultramarine-World Eater fleets, adding their strengths together to overcome their weaknesses. World Eater Assault Marines used their renowned discipline and martial might to tear the heart out of the xenos forces while the Ultramarines used their greater numbers and integrated warfare tactics to overwhelm and disperse the greenskin hordes, allowing the Army regiments to cut down the survivors in interlaced kill zones. Though only days passed, all two score worlds had been captured and tens of millions of the greenskin xenos had been slaughtered. Guilliman and Angron were planning to expand their original mission by assaulting another thirty worlds when word reached them that the killing strike had been delivered on Ullanor, Warboss Urlakk Urg killed by Horus Lupercal, leaving the Ork Waaagh! broken and scattered.

At the following Triumph celebration, the Emperor revealed His intentions to return to Terra and elevated Horus Lupercal to Warmaster. While some, like Jaghatai Khan, Lion El'Jonson and Angron were angered at this, Roboute Guilliman was pleased and glad for his Cthonian brother, publicly swearing his support for the new Warmaster before Horus and their father.

* * *

" _It won't be long now," Horus commented to Guilliman as they walked along the Victory Tower's lower ramparts. The mortal guards they passed bowed as the two demigods walked among them, drawn from the elite Solar Auxilia regiments, while the Custodes saluted with a raised Guardian-Spear. An honour guard of both the XIII and XVI followed behind them at a discreet distance._

" _What won't be long now?" the Lord of the Five Hundred Worlds asked. Both were clothed in rich material, long ceremonial cloaks flowing behind them, coloured in their livery. Neither wore armour, preferring a more comfortable apparel to wear to the Emperor's dinner that was to begin in one hour._

" _The end of the Great Crusade; the completion of father's dream. Peace at last." Horus sounded almost resigned. Guilliman eyed his brother and patted him on the shoulder. Horus was a warrior, a general, a warlord and conqueror. The concept of peace was something the Sixteenth wasn't used to nor even wished. Guilliman understood that._

" _Do not worry, brother. Even after the Crusade is over there will always be war. New alien species will continuously be discovered, as will lost remnants of Mankind who will need to be brought into the Imperial fold. Not to forget the Orks whose numbers will ensure millennia of conflict until they are finally eradicated. Then there is the Eldar who no matter how aggressively we try they always seem to slither through the cracks, clinging to life long past their species' due."_

 _The words comforted Horus, who smiled his thanks to his Macraggian brother._

" _And while you make war, Malcador and I will ensure the Imperium operates smoothly, efficiently."_

" _Leman calls you a pen pusher."_

 _Guilliman laughed, "And I call him an untamed wolf." Horus shared his amusement before becoming serious again._

" _Does it bother you?" the Warmaster asked._

" _Not at all," Guilliman admitted. "I am what I was created to be. You are father's Warmaster, I am His statesman. We are both lords of war but we are also so much more. We each have our own responsibilities in the era to come. Together we will ensure the Imperium endures for all time."_

 _Horus nodded appreciatively. The First Found looked up at the Victory Tower's peak where the primarchs had stood beneath their father's dais and watched the armies of the Imperium march victoriously in parade. That had been three days ago and the process of redeployment was still very much in its infancy. Nearly a million Astartes, over three hundred million Army and Skitarii troopers, and far more… it would take weeks for everyone to be lifted off of Ullanor, or rather Mundus Tropaeum he reminded himself. The Emperor had delegated the task to Horus who embroiled himself in the details to make the chaotic situation one that was orderly and quickly done. Horus had done such things hundreds of times, but still had asked for Guilliman's help, knowing the Lord of Ultramar was exemplary in a field that Horus merely excelled in._

 _The Tower's upper levels resided their brothers, all but Angron and Jaghatai, and those few who could not make the Triumph in time. Guilliman knew Angron's jealousy soured Horus' sense of triumph but only a little, while the Khan's private disagreement angered Horus who hastily ordered the Warhawk to hunt down the remnant of Urlakk Urg's Waaagh! Horus seemed to realise what he was thinking._

" _I regret my words with Jaghatai. Once he has carried out my orders, I will recall him to me. We shall fight side-by-side and renew our bonds of brotherhood in battle. We will talk and any misunderstandings between us will be expunged."_

" _That is wise. You will need many supporters in the years to come. News of your elevation will soon reach every corner of the Imperium. Most will celebrate, but, unfortunately, not all."_

 _Horus nodded, his gold-flecked sea-green eyes seeming heavy with responsibility but he blinked and that weariness was gone, replaced by resolve. Lupercal gestured towards the Tower. "Come, let us eat and talk with our brothers and father. Perhaps we can pretend to be a normal family for an evening." Both chuckled as they made their way upwards._

* * *

After Ullanor, Guilliman returned to Ultramar. He had not visited his Realm in nearly two decades due to the needs of the Crusade and set about on a grand inspection of the Five Hundred Worlds. Six times during his inspection the primarch led his Ultramarines and Ultramar Army regiments into battle against minor xenos species discovered in the outer systems of his Realm where they had lay hidden from the Imperium for over a century.

Over the next few years Guilliman ruled Ultramar from Macragge, sending his Legion on compliance actions in powerful expeditionary fleets while he remained in the Five Hundred Worlds with the bulk of the XIII. In the months prior to the Heresy, warp storms wracked the galaxy, delaying campaigns and interfering greatly with communications, both conventional and astropathic. Due to Ultramar's placement on the far side of the Eastern Fringe and the deviousness of the Fell Powers, news of Horus Lupercal's wounding on Davin, the Night Haunter and his ilk going rogue, and the psychic assault on Terra by Magnus the Red did not reach Guilliman. This lack of information was concocted by Fulgrim and Lorgar, and the latter primarch communed with the Dark Gods to ensure Ultramar remained unawares.

Thus, days before the Dropsite Massacre, the Iron Hands arrived to the Civilised World Calth, a major muster point and principal shipyard for the XIII. There, Ferrus Manus informed the Ultramarines of his intent to fight alongside them against the Orks of Ghaslakh. The Ultramarines warmly welcomed their cousins, gladdened to fight alongside the Iron Tenth once again. For days the two Legions conducted war-games with each other to hone their skills and cooperation but it was all a treacherous ploy.

A daemon-fuelled psychic pulse from Bellanor reached Calth, driving many psykers to insanity and death whilst causing system-wide confusion among the Ultramarines. It was during this initial confusion when the Iron Hands openly declared their new allegiance by launching a massive assault on the loyalist fleet centred in Calth's high orbit, having placed their warships in prime position to ensure dire losses on the XIII. The opening salvo was devastating, crippling the loyalist fleet and destroying large Imperial contingents on Calth's surface. Moments after the first shots were fired, an Iron Hand strike cruiser poisoned Veridia's Star, causing solar radiation to skyrocket to an unprecedented level. This radiation pummelled into Calth's atmosphere, killing billions and even forcing armoured Space Marines to seek shelter in the arcologies scattered throughout the planet's crust lest they succumb to the deadly radiation. These subterranean enclaves provided some protection and allowed loyalist units to reform and entrench themselves.

Tetrarch Stolos Amyntas, commander of all Throne-loyal forces in the system, had conducted a brave, if fruitless defence, his forces unable to recover from the Atrocity's first blow. The tetrarch died like a son of Guilliman, weapon in hand while attempting to protect the innocent. He was killed by the Gorgon in personal combat. Command eventually fell to Captain Remus Ventanus who would go on to wage the Underground War for the next seven years against the traitors and emerge as a Hero of the Imperium.

Days after the Calth Atrocity, the Word Bearers arrived to join the Iron Hands. The two Traitor Legions would then wage the Shadow Crusade, a massive campaign that would storm across Ultramar for two long bloody years, culminating in the formation of the Ruinstorm, trapping the XIII in their domain, preventing any possible reinforcement of Terra.

Many battles would be fought, won, and lost by the XIII during the Shadow Crusade. It is a testament to Guilliman that Ultramar did not collapse under the assault of two Traitor Legions, whose combined forces outnumbered him in terms of legionnaires. The Avenging Son, having lost sixty thousand Ultramarines at Calth alone, was careful in his Astartes deployments, cautious and forced to radically change his methods of war, taking into account the once-taboo idea of Space Marine fratricide that had quickly become reality.

The first months of the Crusade went poorly for the Ultramarines, their shock and initial scattered positioning allowing the traitors to secure many worlds and destroy several others. The Word Bearers opened up minor warp tears across dozens of systems, allowing hordes of daemons to swarm loyalist worlds while Iron Hand battle-automata aided their legionnaire masters in overwhelming Imperial forces. Foul rituals and abominable intelligences, once thought to be of the half-mythical past, now showed themselves to be terrifyingly real which saw panic escalate across the Realm's many trillions of citizens.

In those two years, Guilliman was everywhere. From stiffening buckling sectors, countering traitor attacks, and launching strikes into traitor-held space, the Battle-King of Macragge implemented tactics and strategies that could trace their origins to those of the other Legions. The spear-tip method of the Sons of Horus, the massive armoured assaults of the Iron Hands, and the hit-and-run of the Raven Guard were all employed, preventing the traitors from destroying the Ultramarines and the Five Hundred Worlds.

Despite Guilliman's best efforts, the traitors' plan was working. With every world taken, mass ritualised genocide would take place, overseen by Word Bearer Dark Apostles. After every victory, the warp storm surrounding Ultramar thickened, growing more turbulent and causing travel to become increasingly dangerous. As the Crusade reached its second year of bloody existence, three vital worlds were attacked. Iax, the Garden of Ultramar, was attacked by the Iron Hands who released a nanite-based cellular virus bio-weapon that rapidly spread through Iax's bountiful fields. Though eventually stopped, nearly ninety-percent of Iaxian farmland was ruined and would take centuries to re-cultivate. This drastic reduction of foodstuffs would see to the starvation and death of billions throughout the Five Hundred Worlds.

The second world was Magniat. The Word Bearers' quickly captured the world due to overwhelming numbers and their summoned daemons, and went on to sacrifice billions of survivors in continent-wide rituals that further churned the Ruinstorm. By the time Ultramarine units had been redeployed to liberate Magniat, less than a quarter of the world's original twenty-six billion were alive.

While Magniat and Iax came under assault, the bulk of the X and XVII began the assault on the Fortress World of Armatura. When the traitors arrived to the system, the loyalist commander, Legatus Orfeo Cassandar, sent word to Macragge, warning his primarch of the attack and called for reinforcements but stated he could hold out against the traitor forces arrayed against him for several months. Cassandar did not state this as a boast but as a realistic prediction. Defending Armatura was the Evocati, an elite formation of twenty thousand legionnaires. Aside from Astartes, there were a billion soldiers of the Imperial Army and Ultramar Defence Auxilia garrisoning the Fortress World, all well-equipped and highly trained. Furthermore, there was a full Titan Legion with accompanying Skitarii regiments, in addition to massive orbital defences supplemented by one of the largest fleets in Ultramar, all of which had been expanded and enlarged since the outbreak of the Heresy.

Therefore the legatus felt confident his entrenched forces could resist the two Traitor Legions, even if led by their respective primarchs, long enough for Guilliman and an additional fifty thousand Ultramarines to arrive from Macragge. Unfortunately for the loyalists, this confidence would prove hollow.

Lorgar revealed two of his secret weapons, but rather than based on faith and the Immaterial, these were made of metal and christened by the blood of thousands. These were the Abyss-class dreadnoughts _Trisagion_ and the _Blessed Lady_ and they were unleashed against the orbital defences and Ultramarine void fleet. Though the _Trisagion_ and the _Blessed Lady_ suffered extensive damage in their frontal assault, they nonetheless carved a path through the Imperials, allowing the rest of the traitors to follow and land their forces on the planet below.

For three days the Ultramarines fought valiantly, bravely, yet died all the same. Word Bearer and Iron Hand forces simply overwhelming the loyalist legionnaires and their allies. At battle's end, every single Throne-loyal Space Marine was dead and the traitors reigned triumphant. Lorgar finished the ritual begun on Calth two years prior and this cemented the Ruinstorm's stormwall, preventing any from traversing it without the consent of the Ruinous Powers.

Their primary objective of isolating the XIII from the rest of the Imperium attained, the Word Bearers and Iron Hands left Ultramar to rendezvous with the Arch-Traitor. Though the primarchs were gone from Ultramar, the traitor presence was not. Tens of thousands of legionnaires and many millions of Army soldiers had been left behind to harass and tie down the Ultramarines, to weaken Ultramar and its defenders for the inevitable confrontation that was to take place after Fulgrim's elevation to Second Emperor of Mankind. Not only were there many thousands of the X and XVII still plaguing the Five Hundred Worlds, but so too were there contingents of varying sizes of the other Traitor Legions, all pursuing their own objectives, all detrimental to the loyalists.

The Shadow Crusade carved deep wounds in both Guilliman's empire and his Legion. Over half of his pre-Heresy Legion was dead or missing in action. Throughout Ultramar, the vaunted war-colleges produced large amounts of replacement Aspirants to become new battle-brothers. Where typically they would have trained with their assigned unit for months, or perhaps years before a major campaign, this luxury was forgone. Thus the inexperienced battle-brothers were sent into some of the fiercest fighting that wracked Ultramar, many dying but those that survived, learned and acquired skills against the insurgent, the Traitor Space Marine, and the daemonic, skills the XIII had been forced to acquire since the rebellion had started and would prove its worth in the years to come.

For three years Guilliman slowly exterminated pockets of traitors that riddled his Realm, and began to fortify Ultramar to extents never seen before. Guilliman knew that if Terra fell to the Traitor Legions then Ultramar would be the last great redoubt of those loyal to the Emperor, and thus prepared the Five Hundred Worlds as such. Many projects, measures and precautions were undertaken to ready Ultramar.

One of the measures taken by the Thirteenth Primarch was the activation of the Pharos Device. An ancient xenos construct discovered decades earlier on the colony world of Sotha, its original purpose unknown. Despite its non-active state, Guilliman authorised many leading scientists and several of his Librarians to study the device and attempt to activate it. For years their attempts proved fruitless, until just after the Shadow Crusade ended when the Pharos Device was turned on. Immediately the star systems surrounding Sotha reported less severe warp storms and easier tides in the Empyrean. The Pharos was able to use a piercing trans-dimensional energy to form temporary tunnels of stable and safe pathways through the warp, allowing travel to not only become safer but far quicker than had been the norm since the Ruinstorm's violent birth at Calth. The primarch recognised the worth of the Pharos, and established a powerful defence fleet there and protected by ten thousand Ultramarines.

Using the Pharos, star systems that had been cut off for months or years were reconnected with the rest of Ultramar. Most worlds welcomed the reestablishment of contact, yet some worlds resisted, having been corrupted by cultist cells seeded on these worlds by the traitors or tainted by the horrors they saw in the night sky when the Ruinstorm's baleful light coloured their homes. To these warp-infected worlds, only fire and blade could purge it. Hundreds of millions of their former charges were cut down by the Ultramarines, and though it greatly saddened Guilliman, he nonetheless ordered it without pause lest a seed of ruin was allowed to spread.

An unexpected ally entered Ultramar during the Heresy's fifth year. Leman Russ and the Space Wolves had entered Ultramar in what some called a cosmic fluke but others called an Emperor-given miracle. On Macragge, Russ briefed Guilliman of the wider war. The Avenging Son was relieved to discover Terra still stood and the Emperor lived, allowing him to shelve the secretly proposed Imperium Secundus that many would have called him a traitor for; one that Russ eventually discovered but Guilliman convinced his Fenrisian brother it wasn't to usurp power or elevate himself to emperor, but rather an emergency plan to ensure that if the Emperor died, then Mankind would have a leader and a symbol to rally behind. Guilliman assured his brother that he never intended to crown himself emperor, but rather Horus, Sanguinius, or even Lion El'Jonson. Assuaged by the explanation, the two primarchs led their sons in a campaign to cleanse the Five Hundred Worlds.

For two years the Wolf King and the Battle-King ridded Ultramar of the traitors' presence, but both knew the real fight was inexorably nearing Terra, moving closer every day. Guilliman searched for a way through the Ruinstorm but the gaps in the stormwall were rare and fleeting. After much deduction and study of the Pharos Device and its ability to carve calm tunnels in warp-space, Guilliman concluded that the xenos artefact was the best available option to break through the Ruinstorm.

Guilliman modified the Pharos Device, allowing it to send several transdimensional pulses in rapid succession that burned a hole through the Ruinstorm, allowing Guilliman and Russ to make way towards Terra with their Legions. Despite Guilliman's ingenuity, they were too late. The Emperor had been mortally wounded and interned onto the Golden Throne. Not even Fulgrim's death and the retreat of the Traitor Legions only days before could ease the loss the Thirteenth Primarch felt at his father's fate.

When the Great Scouring commenced, the Ultramarines joined their allied cousins in purging the Imperium of traitors and reclaiming all that had been lost. Though the traitors had lost the Heresy, they were entrenched across the galaxy and still fielded massive armies and fleets. The formation of the Syndicate Chaotica did little to help matters, delaying Imperial victory by several years.

Guilliman knew that if the Syndicate remained intact and coherent, then heavy fighting would stretch on for many more years, possibly decades. The Word Bearers used their nearly inexhaustible supply of daemons and cultists to hold down thousands of worlds, while the Night Lords used fear and grisly examples to ensure their occupied worlds remained pacified, and the Iron Hands produced battle-automata in their millions, while the Alpha Legion incited mass rebellions across Imperial worlds and plagued loyalist supply lines. The four Traitor Primarchs moved frequently within their territories, as well as leading excursions into Imperial-controlled space. This was done to bolster the morale of their forces as well as to stiffen their frontlines, but also led to difficulty for Imperial intelligence to determine where they were, thus preventing a crippling strike.

This changed during the fourth year of the Scouring when a representative of a newly founded organisation approached Macragge's last Battle-King.

* * *

 _Guilliman frowned as the three silver-grey Astartes approached. They had arrived in-system to Yutantiya only hours ago, moving almost undetectable to anchor alongside_ Macragge's Honour _. The flagship's advanced augur relays could barely detect them, in spite of the close distance. He knew who they were and even agreed with their creation, but he did not care for the secrecy that surrounded them nor that their parent organisation was very keen on maintaining that secrecy no matter the cost. If only Malcador had survived the war… he could have done better. But alas, the Inquisition was now run by lesser men. Chosen by Malcador and approved by the Emperor, perhaps, but still lesser than the deceased Regent._

 _The three Astartes stopped before him and knelt. Two of them were captains of great honour, their Aegis armour covered in protective runes and bearing personal heraldry on their left shoulder-pad but it was their commander that interested him the most._

 _This was Janus, Supreme Grand Master of the Grey Knights, but those were merely titles, adopted or given. The true name of this 'Astartes' was none other than Omegon, twin to Alpharius. When Guilliman had reached Terra, the death of Malcador and Dorn had saddened him, the mortal crippling of the Emperor threatened him with despair, but the discovery that there had in fact been twenty-one primarchs and one had been twin to the arrogant and overambitious Alpharius had enraged him. Guilliman had readied himself to kill Omegon, confident that he was still a traitor in disguise. Only Horus and Leman had been able to stop him. Horus defended Omegon, now only referred to as Janus, saying their brother had been a loyalist all along and had brought sufficient proof to validate that. Not to forget the Emperor Himself probed the Twenty-First's mind and saw no treachery or deceit. And Leman, bombastic, savage Leman, had said he smelled no evil emanating from their brother. After several days, Guilliman had recovered his wits and went to speak to his brother but Janus had already departed. Though the Year of Intermission had just begun, the Grey Knights were already being deployed across the galaxy, eliminating threats Guilliman never desired to face._

 _Janus looked up and rose, the other two Knights remained kneeling. Janus walked towards Guilliman, stopping several paces away. His brother looked around the chamber._

" _None will bother us here. No one knows you are even here aside from my First Captain and he is not one to talk."_

 _Janus inclined his head in thanks. Though the surviving Loyalist Primarchs knew the true identity of the Supreme Grand Master of Titan, and possibly another score of other individuals across the galaxy knew as well, his identity was to remain secret from the masses for all time. Janus took off his helm, the pressurised air hissing as it escaped, and what was revealed was a noble face, shaven head nicked with scars made by beings that had haunted Mankind's nightmares for millennia, and deep set eyes. He looked a lot like Horus in that way, but his resemblance to Alpharius was exact. There could be no doubt. The only difference now laid in the golden tint to Janus' irises. That, and there seemed to be… an aura of purity, a cleansing presence, coming from the Grey Knight._

 _Without preamble, the Grey Knight began. "I found him."_

" _Found who?"_

 _Janus smiled humourlessly. "Alpharius."_

* * *

On the backwater world of Eskrador lay hidden a vital Alpha Legion base, coordinating Twentieth Legion activities across dozens of sectors. It was on this world that the Ultramarines attacked with over half their Legion, aided by the elite Grey Knights, the Chamber Militant of the newly formed Ordo Malleus of the Inquisition. Though the world was vital to XX operations in the Segmentum, the true target of this attack was the Primarch of the Alpha Legion.

Guilliman knew his foe was prepared, entrenched and well-equipped, and any assault based on Guilliman's standard doctrines and procedures would bog down. Guilliman knew Alpharius had meticulously analysed his strategies and tactics, and so he decided to improvise with a non-typical manoeuvre. Guilliman concluded the most likely position Alpharius occupied, and without preamble launched a strike with his entire First Chapter, accompanied by several hundred Grey Knights.

The Alpha Legion, despite being taken by surprise, put up heavy resistance but the XX legionnaires were simply outnumbered and cornered. By battle's end, the Alpha Legion was defeated and their gene-sire was killed. History marks the rare killing of a primarch to be an honour attained by Guilliman, something Guilliman publicly confirmed and none have had cause to doubt him.

* * *

 _The cavern, once riddled with cogitators, armouries, and other machinery, some human, other xenos and even a couple that were clearly daemonic in nature, was now filled with wreckage and corpses. The corpses of his Suzerain Invictarus littered the ground, their gene-seed and armour waiting to be recovered. The Alpha Legion traitors were more numerous amongst the fallen, though the steel-grey of the Knights of Titan was seen throughout. Only two figures remained standing, Guilliman and Janus._

 _Guilliman walked to Janus who stood over a corpse that at a glance appeared no different than a lowly XX legionnaire but the warrior's helm was noticeably larger, however slight, and his helm was cracked open allowing Guilliman to view those aqua-green eyes that were identical to the being standing over him. The Supreme Grand Master was cleaning his Emperor-crafted blade, wiping the blood off with a tattered cloak taken from the floor._

 _The Thirteenth Primarch stood next to his smaller brother. "It is done then."_

" _Yes," Janus said quietly. Guilliman detected a hint of sadness in his voice and understood that pain. Though both fought on separate sides they were once the closest of all brothers and the painful knowledge that one had killed the other would torment Janus for the rest of his days, of that the Lord of Ultramar was sure of._

" _It is truly him? Not a ruse or fake like the one who assaulted Pluto during the Solar War?"_

" _It's him," Janus confirmed. "Though I'm sure there will be pretenders in the years to come, but the Last Primarch is dead."_

 _There was silence between them at the levity of those words. Alpharius was the third primarch to die since the Emperor's dream came apart due to Fulgrim's betrayal. The noble, stoic Dorn; the Phoenician; and now the lying manipulator Alpharius, casualties of a war that Guilliman knew would never quite end and one that had raged on for uncounted millennia._

" _Roboute, you must take credit for this."_

 _The words shocked Guilliman from his thoughts. "But why? You killed him; it should be you who is credited this glory."_

" _Because I do not exist, brother. Alpharius is dead," Janus gestured at the Hydra Lord's corpse lying in front of him, "and it must be attributed to another son of the Emperor, one who remained loyal. The actions I take and those my Grey Knights take will never be spoken of, never whispered around campfires as heroic struggles. We live and kill and die with none the wiser. Chaos is an infection and we are the scalpel cutting away the rotted flesh. That is what we are and will be. We do not need the acclamation of others to know we do His work. Take this victory, Roboute, and make it your own. The Imperium needs this victory, needs to know one of its most beloved defenders struck down one of the vilest of traitors. Give the people hope; give them something to remember long after we have faded away from this existence."_

 _Guilliman opened his mouth to respond when a cohort of Ultramarines rushed in and Janus' demeanour changed, becoming distant and reserved._

" _Congratulations on your kill, Lord Guilliman. Soon all loyal men and women of the Imperium will hear of your victory here." Janus said aloud, his voice sounding monotone due to the vox-grille._

 _Guilliman paused, knowing he could deny it, giving Janus the praise but that it would accomplish nothing. "Thank you, Lord Janus. It was a well fought battle."_

" _That it was. Farewell, Lord Guilliman. The Emperor protects."_

 _And with that, Janus of the Grey Knights was gone._

* * *

 **A More Firm Foundation-**

In the years after the Great Scouring, the surviving Loyalist Primarchs were vital in the Imperium's long and arduous recovery. Out of the eight surviving primarchs, none were more instrumental than Roboute Guilliman. It fell to Guilliman, Sanguinius and Horus as the ruling triumvirate to rebuild the Imperium and lead it into the millennia to come. While Sanguinius became Imperial Prince and Horus remained as Warmaster, it was Guilliman as Lord Warden who reorganised and restructured the Imperium's vast administrative bureaucracy via the Codex Imperialis that promoted governance based on meritocracy and centralised efficiency. The second and more controversial work penned by Guilliman was the Codex Astartes.

The Codex Astartes called for the dismantling of the Legiones Astartes and the creation of smaller, more flexible and independent Space Marine Chapters. The Legions, Guilliman explained, were too powerful that if another fell to Chaos then it would have disastrous consequences for the recovering Imperium. Guilliman knew he would have to convince his brothers of the Codex's value and therefore had many contribute to it, adding their philosophies and military doctrine to it, complementing the extensive work the Thirteenth Primarch had already written down. Several compromises were reached, such as the enlargement of Chapters from their initially proposed size of one thousand Space Marines per Chapter to five thousand, among others.

Eventually the modified final draft of the Codex Astartes was presented to the High Lords and all but one agreed to its implementation. Leman Russ heartily disagreed with the Codex, stating it went against the Emperor's vision for His Angels of Death. Such were the tensions raised over the matter that a second civil war threatened to tear the Imperium apart. Russ and his supporters, though very much the minority, were more than willing to defend their ideals. Though many agreed with the Wolf King, few dared to risk treason over it. Eventually Russ saw reason thanks to Horus and Guilliman and agreed to adopt the Codex Astartes.

As the Imperial Reformation continued, Guilliman, Sanguinius and Horus agreed that one of them should remain on Terra at all times to ensure stability and that the ambition of lesser men did not threaten the heart of the Emperor's Realm. As a result of their responsibilities, it fell to Sanguinius to remain on Terra the most while Horus waged wars and led crusades across the galaxy, and Guilliman travelled the width and breadth of the Imperium to see to the proper rebuilding of the Administratum. Despite focusing on reforming and rebuilding the Imperial government, this did not impede on Guilliman's duties as a primarch. The Lord of Ultramar oversaw countless campaigns waged against the xenos, rebel, and heretic.

For a millennia and a half, the Imperium was guided by Guilliman's genius. Shortly after defeating the Black Crusade of Kthelmir during the mid-32nd Millennium, the self-titled Supplicor of Chaos Undivided, panicked reports reached Guilliman of an apocalyptic threat having invaded Ultramar: the Black Legion. Led by their infamous master Typhon the Black, Herald of Nurgle and a Daemon Prince, the corrupted Astartes of the Black Legion conquered a swathe of star systems on the outskirts of Ultramar. Guilliman, realising the threat the former Death Guard posed to not only Ultramar but the entire Ultima Segmentum, quickly diverted to save the Fifty Worlds of Ultramar.

Thus began the Plague Wars.

The Ultramarines, aided by their Successor Chapters: the Novamarines, White Consuls, and the Knights Cerulean, matched the Black Legion in terms of Space Marines, and were further supplemented by the Ultramar Auxilia, billions of Imperial Guardsmen and countless fleets of the Imperial Navy alongside substantial Mechanicum forces. The Host of the Destroyer Hive swelled his Legion with hundreds of millions of Traitor Guardsmen alongside innumerable Plague Zombies and daemons.

For years the Black Legion infested dozens of star systems in and around Ultramar, poisoning worlds, turning them from productive loyal worlds into plague-ridden wastelands where the survivors endured by worshipping the Lord of Decay. This area of space became known as the Scourge Stars and was promptly quarantined by Imperial forces. From this cesspit of suffering and contagion, the Plaguefather's Chosen ravaged Ultramar, causing the deaths of billions and the sufferings of billions more.

It would be on the world of Parmenio that the Plague Wars was decisively decided. Originally a minor recruitment world for the Ultramarines Legion then later a major recruitment centre for the Chapter following the consolidation of Ultramar from five hundred worlds to fifty, Parmenio was vital to Ultramarine defences. If the world fell, the quarantine established around the Scourge Stars would have been breached and catastrophe would have been the result. Typhon, emboldened by years of weathering loyalist assault and wishing to open a warp tear that would allow half the sector to become bathed in the putrid essence of the Plague God's realm, gathered half his Legion and attacked the world, quickly overrunning its defences until stopped cold by the Knights Cerulean who had secretly redeployed to the worlds days earlier..

Guilliman's counter-attack began almost immediately, crippling Typhon's fleet and isolating the dreaded _Terminus Est_ from its escorts. The Thirteen Primarch led a boarding party onto the battle-barge and fought his way to Typhon. But the former First Captain was no mere legionnaire anymore. Bolstered by the favour and powers of Grandfather Nurgle and raised to the immortal ranks of daemonhood, Typhon, called Typhus the Traveller by his Legion, was imbued with the power to fight a demigod.

Guilliman attacked Typhon, and despite the Master of the Black Legion being a Daemon Prince, the Avenging Son was beating him. That was until Typhon called forth a Great Unclean One: Rotigus. His bodyguard slain within moments, the primarch found himself fighting a greater daemons and a daemon prince. Few would have been able to last more than seconds, let alone fight them to a standstill, but the Battle-King of Macragge did so.

For hours the three fought in an intricate game of death and evaded blows. As Rotigus' hold on the Materium loosened, Guilliman banished the daemon but in the process was struck by _Silence_ , Typhon's corrupted manreaper.

 _Guilliman could feel the poison spreading, the corruption overcoming his physiology. His skin felt feverish hot, his armour's cooling system overloaded in seconds. He fell to the floor, the Gauntlets deactivating. He reached for his sword but a rusted boot clamped down on it before the primarch could reach it._

 _Looking up, he saw Typhon, his gaunt, diseased face of boils and sores smiling, revealing rotted teeth and blackened gums. The manreaper, once Mortarion's foster father's and now the favoured weapon of the Black Legion's Master, dripped foul liquids onto the ship's deck, adding more corrosion to the filth and grime already there. The wound dealt by the manreaper leaked blood and pus. It was on his neck, from below the ear to just above the collar bone. Such a small cut but one Guilliman knew that would cause his death._

 _"You are not my father, but your death will do. My master wishes to collect your soul. Glory to the Master of Pestilence!"_

 _Guilliman acted, catching Silence mid-swing, surprising Typhon with his speed and vitality. Rising, he activated one of his Gauntlets, its energy field crackling as he brought it back._

 _"Go back to the hell you crawled out of, worm." Guilliman's Gauntlet caved in Typhon's chest, rupturing his hearts and killing him, though the primarch knew it was only a temporary death but perhaps the decades or centuries of his banishment to the true warp will cause the Black Legion to fracture and their threat to the Imperium to lessen. As the body of Typhon fell to the ground, breaking apart before his very eyes, Guilliman fell to the deck once again and the blackness of unconscious approached him. The last he heard were Astartes boot-steps rapidly approaching._

Guilliman was able to banish both Rotigus and Typhon, though it nearly cost him his life. Recovered by a retrieval Ultramarine force, the primarch was interred into a stasis-pod where it was hoped a cure for the infection ravaging his body could be found though the Apothecaries prognosis was not positive. While his sons mourned, they beat back the Black Legion which had begun to fracture under Typhon's various lieutenants. Within a year the Scourge Stars had been conquered and cleansed and the Realm of Ultramar began to recover.

In the eight and a half millennia since Guilliman's stasis-internment in the Fortress of Hera the Ultramarines have never compromised their ideals laid out by their primogenitor. While the Imperium around them waxed and waned several times throughout the ages, the Ultramarines have remained a bedrock of stable governance, firm loyalty, and supportive of progress, both cultural and technological, ever hopeful of their gene-sire's return.

As the Dark Millennium comes to a close, and the threats arrayed against Mankind continue to grow in number and strength, prayers for Guilliman's resurrection reverberate throughout the Imperium, not only from the desperate mortal masses but also from his Astartes sons amongst the many Chapters spawned from his genetic line. Such prayers have spread across the galaxy and beyond, reaching even the Traitor Legions in the Great Eye who denigrate such optimism from the Imperials and cruelly laugh knowing that if Guilliman were to be brought out of stasis he would die within minutes.

But not all laughed nor prayed. One whose soul burned bright with feral determination left the Eye after millennia wading through its Immaterial tides, and raced towards Macragge.

* * *

 _The Fortress of Hera had changed little since he was here last, so long ago. The Space Marines were different, new generations who knew nothing but endless war, a desperate fight against the encroaching dark._

 _He had seen it even then when he walked among his sons, seeing the optimism of the Great Crusade withering as the memories of the Emperor walking amongst His people faded with time. He had gone to the Eye to revert such things, to retrieve a Seed from the Tree of Life. And he found it, oh how he had found it, and the pacts he had made and the things he had done would haunt him forevermore, but alas he had found the Tree… and saw it dying._

 _The Keeper of the Tree told him that the half-mythical but ever real Tree had been dying for centuries, its cache of Seeds becoming corrupt and forced to be burned. All that remained was one Seed, a small, half healthy looking Seed. Cutting the corruption off had only made it smaller and less potent. It was then that he knew he couldn't revive the Emperor and that revelation nearly broke him. To have spent so long in the madness of the Eye, to confront and fight horrors he had never imagined, only to fail at the end…_

 _But then the prayers of Mankind reached the Eye of Terror. He knew the traitors decried it, insulted the passion and feasted on the desperation inherent in the words, but he finally knew what had to be done._

 _Gathering his few surviving warriors, he left the Eye and returned to real-space. Now after months of traveling, he had arrived in orbit. Using scavenged technologies half-forgotten or severely restricted, he had snuck into the Fortress of Hera, bypassing the vigilant cobalt blue Space Marines, who never stood a chance in preventing his entry. Besides he had learned from his previous attempt, and was thus more cautious, especially since he went into the Fortress alone, leaving his sons aboard the ship._

 _Hours passed before he arrived to Shrine of the Primarch within the Temple of Correction. A detachment of the Suzerain Invictus guarded their sire still. The Temple was empty, an exceedingly rare event but due to recent events spreading across the Imperium, particularly the arrival of three demigods to Terra, Chapter Master Cato Sicarius chose to suspend visitation to the Temple until stability was restored, lest half-crazed fanatics tore open the stasis-pod in desperation for salvation and accidentally killing the Thirteenth Son._

 _He understood and agreed with the principle, but he was there to open the pod regardless._

 _The twenty Astartes in Tactical Dreadnought armour, a newer and more improved mark than the one his sons once wore, were ever wary for threats, either physical or daemonic. But they were not prepared for a primarch. He fell down, throwing small discs with highly complex micro-cogitators. They stuck to the Astartes, sparks of electricity spitting off, and all twenty stood immobile, their armour having locked down. They stared at him in what he assumed was surprise though it was impossible to tell since they all wore helms. He could hear their voices, stifled and diluted by the helms, but they were calling for reinforcements so speed was of a necessity._

 _He knew that they never would have allowed near his brother's body, thus forcing him to use trickery to arrive here. Too long gone, potential corruption from the Eye were valid concerns and the time it would have taken to convince Sicarius would have taken weeks or months, if not longer, and the Imperium needed Guilliman now._

 _He began to open the stasis-pod, inputting an override code that bypassed the pod's security systems. He did so without ritual, which would have horrified many a tech-priest, but time was short. As the pod's locks clicked open and cool, compressed air filtered out alongside the stink of corruption from his brother's wound, he caught Guilliman as he fell to the ground._

 _His brother's eyes opened and he appeared dazed, confused. Guilliman opened his mouth to talk but he clamped his hand over his brother's face, dropping the Seed into his mouth. Massaging his throat ensured it fell down into his primary stomach._

 _Guilliman struggled but he was adamant. "Trust me, brother," he whispered and Guilliman slowly nodded. By then the footsteps of hundreds of Astartes had reached him and within moments they surrounded him, bolters aimed and ready to fire with but a word. Many saw the pod opened, their primogenitor on the floor, eyes closed, and assumed the worst, fingers tightening on triggers._

 _Cato Sicarius, Chapter Master of the Ultramarines since the death of Calgar against the Tyranids during the Battle for Macragge, stared at him, power sword activated._

" _Why have you done this? Why kill our lord? You, who were once so close to him?" There was such anger and confusion in the Space Marine's voice._

 _Before he could respond another voice spoke. "He did what was necessary, my son." The entire temple chamber went silent. He turned around, a tired smile across his face as he saw the wound dealt by a Nurgle-infested weapon closing, leaving nothing but a scar. The corruption had leaked out on the floor and without a host to keep it alive, it dried and ceased to live. The Seed had worked and Roboute Guilliman now walked among the living once again._

 _As Guilliman rose, the assembled Ultramarines instinctively knelt, even those clad in Tactical Dreadnought armour now able to move since the disruptor discs had burnt themselves out._

 _Guilliman surveyed his sons for a moment, before turning to look at him. He noted that his brother's stare lingered on his silver-streaked hair then looked at his face, seeing the scars and signs of stress the burden of duty had put there._

" _Leman," spoke the Lord of Ultramar, "thank you."_

* * *

 **Organisation-**

Long before the Codex Astartes was penned, the Ultramarines were regarded as one of the most organised and balanced Legions in the Imperium. While some like the World Eaters favoured Assault Companies, and the Death Guard favoured non-mechanised infantry assaults, the XIII combined aspects of many of their cousin Legions which allowed for highly adaptable methods of war not only from a Chapter standpoint but also all the way down to individual squads.

After the Heresy and Scouring, Guilliman penned the Codex Imperialis to reform and consolidate the Imperial government in the wake of the chaotic years that followed, but more importantly to the Legiones Astartes, the Avenging Son created the Codex Astartes that saw their massive galaxy-conquering brotherhoods divided into the smaller and less threatening Chapters. While Guilliman had desired to make the Chapters a thousand Astartes strong, he was convinced by Perturabo and Horus that this was insufficient and that Chapters would be easily cut off and destroyed if they numbered so few. Guilliman reluctantly agreed, thus seeing that the Adeptus Astartes Chapters field five thousand battle-brothers, though some field significantly less and other significantly more.

The modern Ultramarines Chapter of course stringently follows the Codex, fielding ten companies of five hundred Space Marines, with the companies then broken up into cohorts (called platoons by many Chapters, especially the Iron Warriors and their Successors) of one hundred brothers then furthermore into squads of ten. The Chapter prefers to deploy its companies as a whole unit, not to be easily divided and doled out, but there have been exceptions to this rule before, most notably during the Badab War when several cohorts of the Ultramarines Sixth Company were deployed as the entirety of Sixth Company was unable to join due to prior commitments.

Though the Codex was meant as a thesis on war, philosophy, and organisation, the Ultramarines and many of their Successors and even other Codex-compliant Chapters have long viewed Guilliman's magnum opus as a holy work and therefore any deviance from it would be seen as lack of faith in the primarch at the very least and near-heretical at the worst. This strict adherence to the Codex has caused some discomfort in the Resurrected Primarch, who has begun to take steps to encourage his sons to develop their own tactical and philosophical thoughts and that constant reform and evolution of the Codex is necessary for it to remain relevant. Guilliman has pointed at the Tyranid Veterans as a prime example of this.

Aside from the Chapter's battle-brothers, the Battle-King of Macragge also uses mortal forces in great numbers. There is the Ultramar Auxilia which are effectively Guard regiments recruited from Ultramar and on permanent station there, only deploying outside the Realm whenever the Chapter Master or primarch command it so. Within Ultramar itself there is the Praecental Guard, the mortal law enforcement that ensures Imperial and Ultramar law are preserved and that peace, order and stability reign among the populace. Rarely spoken aloud of, but nonetheless there are the Vigil Opertii who act as the secret police who hunt down any suspected traitors. Though not gifted with unlimited power and reach that the Inquisition boasts, the Vigil Opertii is nonetheless a powerful organisation very loyal to the Ultramarines and their Realm.

* * *

 _Tetrarchs_

 _During the Great Crusade, the Tetrarchs of Ultramar were four legionnaires who acted akin to Sector Governors that would come into usage during the Imperial Reformation. These four Astartes were considered above the Legion's Chapter Masters and answered to Guilliman and Guilliman alone. Each ruled a vitally important world within the Five Hundred Worlds and were bulwarks of morale and fortitude during the Shadow War._

 _After the Heresy saw the death of all four tetrarchs and Ultramar's voluntary reduction to a tenth of its former size, Guilliman decided to retire the position but since his return the Lord of Ultramar has reinstated the rank, though their responsibilities and influence are greatly reduced, acting more akin to ceremonial commanders and diplomats rather than their Great Crusade-version._

* * *

 **Combat Doctrine-**

Ever since the earliest days of being ruled by the Thirteenth Son, the Ultramarines have maintained a well-balanced and highly flexible combat doctrine, adaptable to countless scenarios. These were codified in the Codex Astartes and have formed the basis of the Ultramarines Chapter methods of war for ten millennia.

A noteworthy facet of Ultramarine military methodology is the concepts of theoretical and practical which encourages each and every Ultramarine to develop predictive preventatives and reactive strategies to fully grasp evolving military situations so as to better adapt and overcome any obstacles the Astartes face.

* * *

 **Homeworld-**

While Macragge is the undisputed capital of Ultramar and home of Roboute Guilliman, it is not the single recruiting world of the Ultramarines. From across the Realm of Ultramar the Chapter recruits its Initiates, from the Cavern World of Calth to the Forge World of Konor the Ultima reigns supreme alongside the Imperial Aquila.

During the Great Crusade and the Fulgrimian Heresy the Realm numbered a little over five hundred worlds but since the Imperial Reformation it was largely dismantled, with only fifty worlds retaining the rights, responsibilities, and privileges of being an Ultramar world.

Macragge itself is a mountainous world of breath taking beauty and biting winds. Home of great industry, art and culture, Macragge has remained a constant beacon of progress and civilisation in an empire drowning in the tides of war.

* * *

 **Beliefs-**

Unlike some of their fellow Chapters, the Ultramarines and a majority of their Successors do not view base Mankind as inherently inferior or as weak masses to be ignored or dictatorially lorded over, rather they see Space Marines first as the protectors of the species and then as rulers a prime example being their governance of the Ultramar Realm and act as the standard to which any Astartes Chapter that governs over mortals must learn from, of which many do.

* * *

 **Gene-seed-**

The gene-seed of the Ultramarines has long been known as the purest amongst the Adeptus Astartes, a fact of which they are immensely proud of. As a result of their genetic stability and purity, as well as the heavy losses suffered by th Loyal Legions suffered during the Heresy, Guilliman was able to rebuild his Legion fairly quickly and when the Codex Astartes was put into effect the Ultramarines produced more Successors than the other Loyalist Legions. As a result the amount of Imperial Space Marines that bear the gene-seed of Roboute Guilliman is estimated to be around twenty-five to thirty percent of the Adeptus Astartes in existence by M41.

* * *

 **Battlecry-**

'We March for Macragge,' and 'For the Emperor' are the two most common battle-cries used by the Ultramarines Chapter, both having been in use since the Great Crusade.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Hey, everyone! This has been long delayed and for that I apologize, but I am proud to present to you the Ultramarines Index. Let me know what your thoughts were. Thank you all for the support!


	36. Death Guard

**Death Guard – Unbroken Resolve**

 _I looked unto him and saw Death. Silent, gaunt and pale. He was the Emperor's Fourteenth Son, but he was more than that… he was the Reaper of Souls._

-Excerpt from the Stygian Scrolls, composed by Lackland Thorn

 **Origins-**

There are few threats more pervasive to Mankind than xenos. Chaos is deemed the greatest threat to Mankind's soul, decreed so by Ecclesiarchy, while the Adeptus Arbites believe it is uncontrolled lawlessness and governmental corruption that threatens the Imperium most of all, but it is xenos that have haunted humanity far before the rise of the Imperium of Man and continue to do so.

Ever since the First Exodus from the Cradle of Mankind, alien races have fought, enslaved and exterminated humans. For countless millennia this has occurred uninterrupted, even during the Age of Technology where the first human empire spanned the galaxy effectively unopposed. The union between Terra and Mars gave birth to the Imperium, combining their resources for the great task ahead. Imperial Expeditionary Fleets rapidly expanded beyond the borders of Sol, eager to bring about Mankind's Manifest Destiny and spread the Imperial Truth. As the Expeditionary Fleets journeyed throughout the galaxy they encountered thousands of worlds where humans were enslaved and, on occasion, no more than livestock to xenos overlords.

One such world was Barbarus, a Feral World in the Segmentum Tempestus. Here a xenos species, thought to be an off-shoot of the Eldar or their more nefarious cousins, ruled absolute over the human population, having conquered the planet millennia ago with contemptuous ease. Barbarus was unlike most habitable worlds that Mankind had claimed for its own. It was a world thick with poisonous fog, dominated by vast mountain ranges that soared into toxic clouds where little lived. It was here in these unreachable heights that the xenos fortresses were protected from the human masses and from which they sallied forth to enslave and torment humans for their own amusement and to engage in endless wars with one another over territory and resources, using human corpses reanimated with necromancy as a never-ending supply of cheap cannon-fodder.

The xenos were, thankfully, not a united force, divided into hundreds of fiefdoms with competing ambitions. Century after century saw these xenos fight amongst each other, rarely changing the status quo. That was until the rise of the Warlord of Barbarus. It is unknown what the Warlord's name was or if he even had one, but the Warlord quickly proved himself a warrior and general without peer, rising from command of a minor fiefdom to controlling a quarter of Barbarus within a scant few decades. The other xenos, wary of this young lord of war, banded together in a coalition to stop the Warlord. In that, they were partially successful.

* * *

 _Victory had never tasted so foul to the Warlord. Despite the field of battle being his, he knew this success had ruined him. The greatest victory he had ever won, a single army arrayed against a dozen others, and only his warriors remained standing. Yet his army was barely a tenth of what he had marched from his border fortress. It would not be enough to conquer what remained._

 _The Warlord surveyed the battlefield, seeing millions of reanimated human corpses, thousands of war-vehicles, and even dozens of his own kind. Though the coalition had been defeated, their armies wiped out, they would recover faster than he would. In only a few years their armies would march on his lands, rebuilt and expanded, arrayed against his highly trained and well-equipped but much diminished army. He had the leadership and the equipment but they had the numbers and the desperation of those knowing that if they failed they would be victim to his non-existent mercy._

 _Contempt and frustration built up in him, coursing through his veins like poison. He roared in anger and lashed out with his powers, his retinue having shielded themselves from the psychic outburst but the nearby undead were not so lucky. Blood poured from their eyes, noses and ears, their moans of pain bringing little pleasure to the Warlord who typically enjoyed such things, though preferring them from living humans who could feel all his sadistic ministrations. His lieutenants and guard backed away, knowing their master's anger was rarely seen but never safe to be around._

 _Before another lashing out, a piercing cry erupted from nearby. He noticed it was not a cry for help or pain but of something else. Intrigued on what it could be in the midst of a field of death, the Warlord moved to where the sound originated. There, in a crater where a metal pod had crashed and broken apart, lay a baby. It was pale, hairless, and its crying annoyed the Warlord, yet he was fascinated that a mere human baby was breathing the air without a rebreather and not perishing instantaneous. Despite his curiosity, he frowned in disgust and reached for his manreaper, but the baby's crying suddenly ceased and it opened its eyes._

 _The Warlord did not know what it was about those pale, colourless eyes, but they held onto him, unmoving and unblinking. There was no fear. This was no mere human child… but something else, something created, not born. Releasing_ Silence _, he reached down and scooped the infant up. Turning, he made way to his command aerocopter, pondering as to what would come about due to sparing of the star-child._

* * *

The Warlord had secured his greatest victory in his decades long war of conquest, but in doing so had crippled his forces, leaving him vulnerable to an inevitable counter-attack. The Warlord, despite his cunning and cruelty, would have undoubtedly lost to the combined might of the other xenos overlords. But fate or happenstance changed that outcome, for in the centre of his pyrrhic victory, the Warlord discovered a primarch, the Fourteenth Son of the Emperor, a demigod whom he named Mortarion, the child of death.

Intrigued by the primarch, the Warlord returned to his primary fortress that resided along the flank of one of the most imposing mountains on Barbarus. There the Warlord watched in mute awe as the primarch rapidly grew from a small child to a young man in barely a year. Mortarion was taught to be the most formidable weapon in the Warlord's arsenal and in this the primarch excelled, surpassing all expectations. The Warlord, who saw Mortarion as a son of sorts, nevertheless noted the primarch's vaunted resilience to the toxic atmosphere and the threat he could one day pose, and decided to move his personal mansion to the top of the mountain as a precaution, an environment where not even Mortarion could safely venture.

Despite his reservations of Mortarion, the Warlord had grown desperate as during the years of training his adopted son, the coalition had advanced steadily into his lands, halving them by the time the Warlord unleashed Mortarion upon them. Mortarion fought and won dozens of battles in rapid succession, defeating the coalition and reclaiming his adoptive father's lost territory. Despite lacking their numbers and quantity of equipment, the primarch more than made up these shortfalls with his flawless tactics and an uncompromising ruthless drive for victory. It did not take long for the Warlord armies, commanded by Mortarion, began to go on the offensive, taking the fight to the rest of Barbarus. One by one the xenos fortresses were taken, their non-human defenders slayed to the last creature while the undead humans were brought under the command of the Warlord's necromancers.

* * *

 _Another of the undead walked past him, shuffling, jaw slacked, eyes milky white. Its hands were bleeding but it did not notice. It carried a rusted bolt action projectile rifle and no armour. Its existence did not matter, it was but a tool of war, a resource to be used then uncaringly discarded. That's what he had been told, but Mortarion was not a fool. He publicly accepted that the reanimated corpses were leftovers from the world's previous inhabitants, merely brought back to a state of living and repurposed to be of use, but he privately knew them to be humans and that the constant resupply of them bespoke of a viable population that lived beneath the worst of the toxic fog._

 _But Mortarion could not go against his father's empire alone. He would act the compliant son, carrying out his wars and winning them all. While his father believed it was to bring glory and power to him, Mortarion had other reasons to conquer the world. Every fortress he captured, every one of the tall, lithe other-kind he killed was one less to fight against when he left the Warlord's service. Secreting equipment and armaments into hidden caches would also go a long way into arming the humans._

 _As another of the undead shuffled by atop the bastion's walls of his most recent conquest, he felt pity for the creature. It was of his species, no matter what the Warlord proclaimed. He had called them animals, soft and vulnerable, yet Mortarion knew himself to be one and he was far from weak. He knew his father feared him… and one day those fears would be proven right._

 _Mortarion took a deep breath, feeling the familiar burn the air brought, taking comfort in it, before shouldering his manreaper and walking back into the bastion proper, going off to execute the surrendered other-kind. His father had demanded no prisoners, and Mortarion was more than willing to do so. He bared his teeth, a rare and ghastly sight, in the knowledge that his 'father' was sowing the seeds of his own destruction._

* * *

In less than a decade, Mortarion had defeated all before him and the Warlord reigned supreme over Barbarus, yet it was not too last. Mortarion, long forbidden by the Warlord from descending into the world's deep valleys where the poison fog was thin, and even in some cases non-existent, had grown restless of his adoptive father's restrictions and sought what lived there in the valleys and chasms, wishing to confirm his suspicions that his own species resided there. And Mortarion was proved right when he came across a village, full of living, breathing human beings, the first he had seen. While observing, Mortarion heard laughter. Not the condescending or triumphant barking laughter of the Warlord or his other-kind warriors but of genuine, humour-filled laughter. After days of observation, Mortarion knew he could never return to the Warlord for he had finally found his people. Mortarion's hatred of his foster father and his ilk grew tenfold as Mortarion realised that for years innumerable the humans of the valleys had been naught but easy prey. The suffering his people had endured pained the primarch but took comfort in that they still had found ways to enjoy life, laugh, and love one another. Mortarion found himself admiring them, noting their strength and fortitude, intrigued by their sense of community and the well of strength that represented.

Mortarion approached the village, whose denizens hesitantly allowed the gaunt outsider to live among them though many held reservations. But Mortarion was patient and helped haul in their meagre harvest and repair their assortment of half-corroded machinery, allowing clean water and resources to be more easily accessible. Mortarion slowly gained the villagers' trust but knew they would not fully accept him, not unless they were threatened. And threatened they became.

A minor lieutenant of the Warlord led a host of xenos and undead to the village, intent on raiding it for slaves. The humans, armed with farming equipment, torches and little else, readied to fight the attackers as they had done innumerable times previously. The xenos had expected a typical easy raid but it quickly devolved as Mortarion took to the field. The primarch had brought a small cache of weaponry for the villagers to arm themselves with, of which they did so enthusiastically. Wielding his manreaper in one hand and a farming scythe in the other, the primarch quickly defeated the lieutenant's forces, leaving none alive. The villagers, thankful to their saviour, fully accepted Mortarion and elevated him to leadership of the village.

The primarch acted quickly as word of the host's destruction would soon reach the Warlord. Mortarion travelled to dozens of villages, using his blunt charisma and force of personality to win them to his side. He began training thousands of humans as soldiers, using hastily constructed firearms and bladed weapons in conjunction with secreted armament caches to arm the villagers. Under Mortarion's supervision, this ad-hoc motley collection of peasant farmers had transformed into competent warriors, disciplined and resilient. Within a few weeks another xenos host, larger and better equipped than the first, had arrived and was soundly defeated by Mortarion and his soldiers, whom he dubbed the Death Guard in the battle's aftermath.

After these early victories, the humans fought the xenos planet-wide, overrunning many of the remaining fortresses, using primitive suits of power armour created by Mortarion to reach and fight in the toxic fog that clung alongside the mountains. As each fortress fell, the weapons and resources at the Death Guard's disposal grew, and under Mortarion's leadership they lost not a single battle.

Finally, after years of endless campaigning and so much death, Mortarion had surrounded the last fortress, that of the Warlord. The capture of the fortress took weeks but its fate wasn't in doubt, but the Warlord withdrew to his fortified mansion atop the mountain's peak. The primarch was unable to reach him despite his advanced physiology for the poison fog was deadly, even to him. The Death Lord, as his followers reverently called him, crafted more durable power armour and more efficient rebreather equipment yet even these.

Thus the Warlord and the last few of his xenos remained alive but too few in number to reclaim the world they had once ruled with an iron fist while the humans were unable to reach their former oppressors. This all changed with the arrival of the Emperor.

The Emperor had arrived to the human war-camp at the base of the Warlord's mountain and revealed Himself to Mortarion. Mortarion, wary of another who dared stated he was the primarch's father, refused the Emperor's offer to join the Imperium. After much discussion between the two, the Fourteenth Primarch struck a bargain. Mortarion said he would only join the Imperium if he was unable to kill the Warlord within the next month but if the xenos overlord died by his hand then Barbarus would remain independent of the Imperium. The Emperor agreed.

Mortarion spent the next month constructing his most advanced and resistant power armour possible with the resources available to him. It would theoretically allow him to weather the mountain peak's upper levels of poisonous clouds. Day after day he tirelessly worked on it and on the thirtieth day, the primarch marched to confront the demagogue.

* * *

 _The air was thick with poison, armour visibly corroding with each step. His chest heaved, lungs extracting what little oxygen existed in the air. Every foot forward took immense effort, body weak and aching as it attempted to heal itself and slowly failing._

 _Mortarion's throat rasped as he fell to his knees before the gates of the mansion. So close, he thought, so damn close. He hit his hands on the black gate, hammering away, denting the metal but as he became weaker his blows became softer until finally there was no strength left. As his vision turned black, he at least felt relief that he would no longer serve another who dared to call him son. He would die his own man._

 _Mortarion awoke on the cold, hard earth of the mountain side. The pain was not gone, but it had lessened to a degree. His lungs felt scarred and a noticeable rasp escaped his lips with each breath. At first he thought he was alone, such was his disorientation at first, but alas he was not._

 _The 'Emperor of Mankind' as he so grandiosely named himself, sat across from him. Had he always been so short? Mortarion could have sworn the Emperor had been taller, broader in the shoulders but he appeared thinner, older. He blinked and the Emperor's aged appearance disappeared as if it never existed, replaced by the powerful figure who had first introduced himself to Mortarion a month ago. Though his 'creator' wore nothing but a dark cloak with a double eagle broach, the demigod knew the figure was more powerful than him. And there was something else, something otherworldly, a power of the other-kind that the Emperor held within. Mortarion could smell the witch-taint on him. It disgusted him, reminding him of the Warlord._

 _"I failed," he said._

 _"You did," replied the Emperor._

 _"I am to kneel then? Become your servant?"_

 _"Not my servant, but my son, my warrior, and my commander."_

 _"A servant all the same," he remarked bitterly. "I have unfinished business here."_

 _"Yes, you do."_

 _"And I cannot reach that motherless bastard. He is beyond me."_

 _The Emperor stood and withdrew from his cloak two items. One was a rebreather of intricate design, the other a manreaper. Both were evidently crafted by a master artisan. On the manreaper's hardwood pole it sported eagles, lightning bolts, and skulls inlaid into it._

 _"It is not my place to finish what you started, Mortarion. You began the unification of this world," the Emperor extended the manreaper and rebreather, "and you will see it conclude, not I. And when you kill him, I will present you with a choice. Join the Imperium of your own free will, or deny me and rule your world independently, never to hear from me or the Imperium ever again."_

 _Mortarion was silent, mind pondering. "You would take the risk that I would refuse your offer a second time?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _"Why?"_

 _"Because I know you will make the right choice."_

 _Mortarion found himself nodding slowly. He had made his choice. It was clear the Emperor wanted his allegiance but would not force it. Was his creator, his father, a man worth fighting for? Mortarion was beginning to feel that He was._

 _"Now go, my son, seek your revenge; kill the xenos for nothing is beyond you now."_

 _Mortarion reached for the items, knowing everything was about to change._

* * *

Mortarion, now re-armed with the manreaper he named _Perseverance_ and a highly modified rebreather of advanced design, ascended the mountain once more and this time was able to ascend to the peak with ease. There he broke down the gate of the Warlord's mansion, slew the guards and attendants, and confronted the tyrant in his throne room. Both wielded manreapers and both drew wounds, but the primarch found himself victorious, the Warlord's psyker powers proving ineffective against the demigod, and Mortarion slew the Warlord, taking Silence as a trophy and for remembrance.

Mortarion returned to the Emperor, fell to his knees in supplication and swore eternal allegiance to the Master of Mankind. It is said the Emperor smiled kindly and raised His Son up off from his knees and embraced him.

* * *

 **Great Crusade-**

The Fourteenth Legion was quickly introduced to their primogenitor within months of Barbarus joining the Imperial fold. Brought before his sons, who were named Dusk Raiders for their favoured tactic of assault, Mortarion found himself proud of their accomplishments. To honour his mortal warriors who had helped cleanse the world of xenos oppression and the Legion he had just acquired, Mortarion renamed the XIV, stating, "You are my unbroken blade. You are the Death Guard. By your hand shall justice be delivered, and doom shall stalk a thousand worlds." Now led by their gene-sire, bearing new colours and name, the XIV returned to conquer the stars for humanity.

It was rumoured amongst the Imperial masses that for every xenos species wiped from existence, the Death Guard had a hand in its destruction. Though this is an unrealistic and untrue statement, the Fourteenth Legion nevertheless became renowned for its military actions against various alien species. Such was their proficiency that by the time the Great Crusade came to a sudden halt following the betrayal of the Fallen Eight Legions, the Death Guard held the record of most xenos species exterminated.

When asked by Roboute Guilliman why the Death Guard so rarely brought human worlds to compliance, the Death Lord explained that to do so would be a waste of his Legion's talents and as a result very few human worlds were brought to compliance by the XIV during the Great Crusade, preferring to leave such campaigns to their cousins more adept at integrating worlds into the Imperium. While others dismantled, rebuilt and re-educated, the Death Guard simply destroyed.

* * *

 _Farseer Yelsin Cassadarri limped through the smoke-clogged hallways of his Craftworld. Every corpse he passed saddened him, another burden upon an already weary soul. Not even the scattered few dead of the mon-keigh brightened his demeanour. They were too many and had suffered too few. Il'sariadh was lost. Another Craftworld destroyed by mon-keigh warmongering, another remnant of the Asuryani wiped from existence._

 _As he walked down the once elegant corridors of his ruined home, he reflected on how this had come to transpire. The mon-keigh had destroyed seven Craftworld in five years, their resolve to hunt down the Children of Isha having grown firmer in recent decades. Four Craftworlds, tired of being destroyed in their self-imposed isolation, had come together to combine their resources to ensure their survival, believing that the Imperium would be hesitant to take on such a powerful force._

 _They were wrong._

 _The mon-keigh, spearheaded by those monstrous Astartes in their white and green armour, attacked the four Craftworlds, using their numbers and tactical ferociousness of one of their god-like generals. Within hours the other defence fleets had been broken, the other Craftworlds boarded and overrun, while Il'sariadh fled. They had hoped to evade the Imperials and flee to safety. Again they had been wrong. A Space Marine battlegroup had lain in wait, predicting that a Craftworld would attempt retreat, and had crippled Cassadarri's home. Then they had been boarded and that was when the killings truly began._

 _Even now he could hear screams echoing through halls that once bustled with life and laughter. His species couldn't even die a noble death; rather they were being butchered like animals._

 _From his left, down the hall, a door exploded outwards and a squad of their monsters came storming in. They quickly spotted him but did not fire, recognising his rank via his staff and clothing, bloodied and dirtied that it was._

 _He attempted to use his powers but they were spent, his body and soul beyond weary. As he raised his staff to channel what little energy he had left his hand holding the staff exploded, one of their warrior's oversized guns smoking from firing. The psychic backlash threw Cassadarri to the wall, smacking his head against the smooth wraithbone wall. He was dazed, blood pouring from an open wound on his head._

 _Within seconds he felt a collar locked around his throat and his link to the Empyrean disappeared. A brute in dirty white amour with dark green trim lifted him up from the debris-littered ground one handed. Cassadarri could hear their primitive communication, despite their helms._

 _"Battle-captain, target secured. Orders?"_

 _"We are to escort the target to the_ Endurance _. The primarch will wish to interrogate the prisoner himself."_

 _A sense of dread overcame the farseer. The Lord of Death was here? Then his fate was sealed… By the gods, he prayed, grant him a quick death._

* * *

While most Legions divided themselves into scores, if not hundreds of detachments, the XIV were very different in this regard. Mortarion greatly believed in the use of concentrated mass deployment of legionnaires, overwhelmingly the enemy with their disciplined numbers and unwavering resolve. Due to the Death Guard's poor relation with the Mechanicum and their preference to not fight alongside regiments of the Imperial Army, the Fourteenth Legion did not fight with an abundance of heavy equipment or vehicles nor had much in the way of mortal auxiliary support, thus creating an infantry-centred war doctrine. To better cleanse the galaxy of xenos filth, the Death Guard divided themselves into three large detachments of roughly thirty to thirty-five thousand legionnaires. One was commanded by the primarch, another by the First Captain and the last by the Commander, the third in command of the Legion. Though the Legion did come together for grand campaigns such as the Third Rangdan Xenocides, for which the Death Guard won the respect of many of its fellow Astartes, they were typically deployed in this division of three powerful taskforces.

Though this deployment ensured the Death Guard won many wars of extermination and helped solidify the Imperium's borders and expand the Emperor's Realm, it also planted the seeds of their near-destruction.

For the Ullanor Crusade, the Death Guard were unavailable, their three detachments all undergoing their own campaigns when the Emperor gathered His mighty host to take down Urrlak Urruk's empire. Mortarion is recorded as having attended the Ullanor Triumph and was a strong supporter of Horus Lupercal's elevation to Warmaster.

Months later at the Council of Nikaea, the primarch, despite his well-known distaste for psykers, remained neutral and chose to support whatever decision the Emperor made, surprising Russ and Corax who had counted on the Death Lord's support. Following the Nikaen Edict, the XIV returned to the Great Crusade's frontlines.

In the years after the Triumph of Ullanor, Mortarion focused his third of the XIV in cleansing the untamed Halcyon Nebula. Dozens of xenos species had been eradicated, Imperial colonists flooding into the conquered sector, when panicked astropathic reports reached him that the Warmaster had been gravely wounded on Davin and had subsequently been placed in stasis for transport to Terra to be healed. The Emperor called on Mortarion to assist Him in healing Horus, knowing of the Death Lord's proficiency with poisons and toxins. It was hoped by the Master of Mankind that with their combined efforts that Horus would be saved from what appeared to be impending demise. Mortarion quickly departed for the Throneworld with an honour guard of five thousand legionnaires, commanded by Battle-Captain Nathaniel Garro.

Arriving to Terra, the primarch assisted the Emperor in purging the virulent contaminants from Horus' body. During this trying ordeal, the Night Lords went rogue and Magnus unleashed psychic devastation on Sol. Amidst the chaos of the situation, the primarch put the command of the entire Fourteenth Legion, barring the five thousand honour guard, under his First Captain's command and ordered them to make way to Bellanor as part of the Retribution Armada. Meanwhile, the Death Guard legionnaires in Sol were ordered to help maintain order on the Throneworld, fighting alongside the Silent Sisterhood in purging cultist activity that erupted in Terran underhives.

While Battle-Captain Garro commanded his brothers in stabilising Terra and Mortarion helped heal the First Found, the remaining ninety thousand Death Guard Astartes made way to Bellanor IV to eliminate the rebel Night Haunter and his get.

* * *

 **Treachery Within-**

 _Typhon the Black_

 _The most notorious Astartes to ever originate from Barbarus was without a doubt Typhon the Black. Coming from humble origins as a peasant's son, Calas Typhon was selected for Legion induction mere months after the Warlord's death. He quickly passed all trials set before him and his body accepted the many surgeries placed upon it. For years Typhon fought as a mere battle-brother, earning the attention and favour of Mortarion. It is unknown by modern Imperial chroniclers when Typhon ascended to the rank of First Captain, but it is known he fought during the Second Rangdan Xenocides as a company officer and that there were three who preceded him in that post._

 _For over a century Typhon had been the primarch's second-in-command, ruthlessly following his gene-sire's orders. But this outward obedience was merely a façade. Underneath his supposedly loyal exterior was a man corrupted by one of the Fell Powers. There are conflicting reports on how and when Typhon became corrupted by Nurgle. The Death Guard state it occurred during one of his Great Crusade expeditions, while the Inquisition believes Typhon's family was a Nurglite cult on Barbarus though the First Founding Chapter fervently denies this. Nevertheless by the time Konrad Curze had gone rogue and Magnus' psychic prowess had assaulted Terra, Typhon was without a doubt a Chaos lord who had corrupted his third of the Fourteenth Legion due to its relative isolation from the rest of the Death Guard._

 _Since the Heresy, Typhon the Black has risen to command a vast host of warriors, the core being his Traitor Death Guard whom he renamed the Black Legion following the Dropsite Massacre. He has been a consistent blight upon the Imperium, leading to the mortal wounding of Roboute Guilliman and ravaging the Fifty Worlds of Ultramar in mid-M32, alongside dozens of other major incursions, including several Black Crusades. Typhon, going by the name of Typhus the Traveller, has remained a high valued target and is considered a Vermillion-level threat. His appearances in Imperial space are treated with extreme caution and see to the mass deployment of considerable Imperial resources to counter the threat the Master of the Black Legion poses. It is to no surprise that the Death Guard and its Successor Chapters are ever vigilant in pursuing Typhon, eager to end the stain on their honour that he represents. Thus far, they have been unsuccessful but not by lack of trying._

 _Typhon is one of the more powerful warlords within the Great Eye, having once contended against Tyberius Sakaeron millennia ago for the position of War Commander. Though he does not have the powerbase of Sakaeron, he does have the favour of Nurgle and has vast resources at his disposal, making him a vital asset to the Archenemy's cause. Imperial Intelligence predicts that Typhon and his Black Legion will constitute a major force within the traitor forces for the upcoming Eleventh Vengeance Crusade._

* * *

The Death Guard arrived to Bellanor to quash the Nostraman legionnaires. They were slotted for the first wave of the loyalist assault. Fifty-five thousand Death Guard legionnaires landed alongside the Blood Angels and Salamanders, securing the Angel's flanks. Some questioned why a third of the Legion was held in reserve and why Commander Ignatius Grulgor and not First Captain Typhon led them into battle. Such questions were deflected and ignored, and orders were given. For hours the loyalists fought against the Night Lords, securing drop-zones for the incoming second wave. But when the second wave came it brought not victory but treachery.

The loyalist Death Guard were severely mauled, its ranks cut down by the Word Bearers and their own brothers. Thousands died in the opening salvoes. Sanguinius rallied the Throne-loyal legionnaires and the Bellanor Exodus followed but at great cost. Out of the fifty-five thousand loyal Death Guard Space Marines that landed on Bellanor IV, only six thousand were able to escape. Another humiliation was that the flagship Endurance had been captured by those loyal to the First Captain. While the Blood Angels withdrew to the Grejor's System's Talas Station for refit and resupply, the depleted Salamanders split into two fleets. The first and largest was despatched to the Draco Sector by a near-dead Vulkan, ordered to fortify and ready the Drake Lord's realm for any traitor incursions and to protect his people. The second carried the mortally wounded Vulkan in a stasis pod and it was this fleet that the surviving XIV Astartes accompanied.

* * *

 _Porphyricus unleashed another bolt of lightning against the encroaching daemons, burning warp-flesh, daemonic ichor dripping to the floor with a hiss. Sapped of strength, he raised his bolt pistol and fired until it clicked dry. He withdrew, allowing a half-dozen warriors from two Legions to step forward to unload bolter fire unto the daemonic horde. The creatures screamed as their bodies died, their corrupted essence returned to the Immaterium. The daemons died before they reached the Space Marines. Astartes reloaded as they awaited the next wave. Four assaults had come and gone, with two reaching the legionnaires and the transhuman warriors suffering as a result, but each time the enemy had been pushed back, defied, and the line held. The battlecruiser_ Nuvarrok _held nearly three hundred Astartes of the XIV and the XVIII and only together had they survived thus far. Sol was still far away and the enemy was relentless._

 _The Death Guard Librarian slumped to the metal floor, taking time to recover before the enemy returned. Atesh Tarsa, a Salamander Apothecary, knelt next to him, checking his vitals via a narthecium, tapping into his war-plate's machine-spirit for the data._

 _"I am fine, cousin. I just need to rest."_

 _Tarsa nodded, patting Porphyricus on the shoulder before moving to help another legionnaire, a Barbaran who had been impaled by spikes of warp-energy, the wounds refusing to close. Minutes passed and the ship shuddered, its Geller Field suffering more malfunctions and the Librarian knew more of the enemy had boarded. Clutching an Aquila pendant, he rose to face it._

* * *

The trip to Terra was difficult, plagued by warp storms and daemonic incursions, as well as sabotage by Typhon-loyalists that had secreted themselves amongst the Death Guard fleet. Several times the loyalists became lost in the warp, the light of the Astronomican nearly lost to them by nefarious false gods. Ships were lost, casualties mounted, but the fortitude of the loyalists remained strong. The Salamanders and Death Guard grew close during this difficult endeavour, establishing bonds of brotherhood that are upheld even to this day over ten thousand years later.

Despite all the hardships suffered and seemingly impossible tasks overcome, the Salamander-Death Guard fleet eventually arrived to Terra after months of effort. There the Death Lord scoured his Legion of any Typhon-saboteurs. After a year of purging the ranks and ensuring Terra had been largely cleansed of traitor cults, the Death Guard departed Sol to return to the war and help whittle down traitor forces advancing on the Sol System.

Mortarion's Death Guard, just over ten thousand, fought in dozens of battles. Attacking supply depots and worlds sworn to the War Commander were the preferred tactics. As a result of their low numbers, Mortarion was forced to heavily rely on mortal support to carry out the many raids he organised, desperately needing Army manpower and battlegroups for his strategies. Therefore throughout the Fulgrimian Heresy, the Death Lord commanded a considerable Army fleet and ground assets that greatly bolstered his fighting strength and allowed for more daring attacks on traitor forces.

One of the more noted actions the XIV undertook was the surprise assault on the White Scars during the Heresy's second year. A significant portion of the Fifth Legion had anchored itself above the dead world of Prospero. Seeing the Chogorians as vulnerable and a rare chance to kill a Traitor Primarch, Mortarion attacked the White Scars.

 _Jaghatai's tulwar flashed through the air, too fast for mortal or even transhuman eyes and nearly too fast for a primarch. Mortarion blocked it, barely, and lunged forward with his fist, breaking the traitor's nose. In response, Jaghatai lunged and his power sword pierced through the armour and meat of Mortarion's left thigh. Hissing in pain, Mortarion swung_ Perseverance _in a wide arc, forcing his brother to withdraw._

 _They had been fighting for hours, their bodyguards whittled down to only a handful of warriors. All around the Death Lord were the remains of a city that once shone with light, now naught but ruins and ruled by whispers of the dead. Despite the Burning happening well over a year ago, Mortarion could smell the lingering witch-taint. It seemed Russ was right all along, something had been wrong with Magnus. Maybe the Edict of Nikaea should have been more stringent, more limiting. Had the Librarian Compromise been too lenient, too forgiving?_

 _Such thoughts were interrupted as the Khan flew at him, all rage, mobility and lethal finesse. Mortarion blocked most of the blade-thrusts but not all. Blocking with his manreaper, he quickly unsheathed a jagged Barbaran dagger and stabbed forward into Jaghatai's chest. Blood dripped from the wound as his brother turned to pull it out and spun back into the melee. Mortarion could take on far more damage than his brother but was not nearly as fast. They were in a stalemate._

 _"My primarch," came the wizened voice of_ Reaper's Scythe _shipmaster._

 _"What?" he barked into the vox, blocking another tulwar strike._

 _"Lord, White Scar reinforcements have arrived in-system. I count over two hundred warships clustered around the Mandeville point with more emerging every moment."_

 _Mortarion snarled, frustrated anger welling up in made his choice quickly. If he stayed he and his Legion would die useless deaths. It was a risk he wasn't willing to take._

 _"Order the fleet to disengage, head to Mandeville point beta-two. Use the 73rd Heavy Battlegroup as a shield. I am returning to you now."_

 _"Lord." The link was cut. Mortarion knew the Army battlegroup would die to a man, their bravery and loyalty buying them an early grave. But they were many, easy to replace, while the Death Guard were few and difficult to replenish._

 _At a unique sequence of vox-clicks, he and the Deathshroud disengaged, withdrawing back to their dropships. The Keshig did not pursue, not risking their Khagan's safety for a chance to kill more loyalists. As Mortarion boarded his Stormbird, he looked back out over Tizca's ruined skyline. He could see Jaghatai Khan staring at him from the plaza they had fought in. And saw a wicked smile split Jaghatai's face, sending a chill down Mortarion's spine._

* * *

The Second Battle of Prospero ended indecisively. Both sides suffered losses but neither were crippled nor were their respective primarchs incapacitated, much to Mortarion's disappointment. The Legion's Army assets mauled by the White Scars in the retreat from Prospero, the XIV were forced to choose their battles more carefully. Despite their depleted numbers and limited resources at their disposal, the Death Guard remained active, harrying the traitors' rear. Fulgrim became so enraged at Mortarion that when a messenger came to report another supply convoy intercepted and destroyed the War Commander had the messenger skinned alive and hung in the Court of the Phoenician, his cries for mercy lasting days before perishing.

As the Heresy grinded onwards and the Traitor Legions readied for the invasion of Sol, Fulgrim ordered several taskforces to defend his rear flank while the vast bulk of the Traitor Legions invaded the Sol System. One of these taskforces was commanded by Ilyaster Faylech, a ranking officer in the Black Legion. Faylech commanded ten thousand Black Legion Astartes plus two million Army troopers and hundreds of Army warships around a core of Space Marine vessels, centred on the _Endurance_. These forces were concentrated around Yarant, a vital Imperial world near Sol that had fallen to the traitors months earlier after two largescale battles.

Mortarion knew he would not make it to Terra in time, that he would not be able to affect the war's endgame. Win or lose, the Heresy had temporarily lost all matters of importance to the Lord of Barbarus. Fulgrim's treacherous ambition was momentarily cast aside in favour of ending the betrayal of his wayward sons. The primarch's forces consisted of several thousand legionnaires plus a few score Army warships and forty-six Army regiments of various sizes, all having been through hell the past seven years of war, their regiments harrowed and ill-equipped.

Mortarion knew that his attack on Faylech's forces would be his last act. He was outnumbered, outgunned, running dangerously low on supplies and his fleet assets had not seen a proper shipyard refit since before the Dropsite Massacre. His Legion, once numbering ninety-five thousand, now fielded less than five thousand. It would be the death throes of a Legion that had remained true despite all that had assailed them. Treachery from within and without could not deter their fighting spirit, their loyalty to the Emperor, nor their bonds of brotherhood with those that stayed true to their gene-sire.

* * *

 _"Have I made mistakes, my son?" Mortarion asked. The primarch was in his arming chambers, where Legions serfs locked his war-plate onto the Lord of Death. A Mechanicum magos circled the primarch, flicking sanctified machine-oil onto the armour whilst praying in binaric._

 _Nathaniel Garro, Commander of the Death Guard since word of Typhon's treachery and Grulgor's death, stood off to the side of the chamber, hands clasped before him. Garro's pondered his father's question, detecting the bitterness in them, the frustration, but above all the sadness. The war had been exceedingly hard, Typhon's treachery nearly breaking Mortarion's spirit that had been laid so low by Horus' near-death. He wanted to lie, to tell his father that he was infallible but that is not what the primarch wanted to hear, not what he needed to hear._

 _"Mistakes have been made, sire. Some by you, but none are infallible."_

 _Mortarion's gaunt face, so pale and wearied, split into a small smile. "That is why I prize your counsel, Nathaniel. You tell me the truth no matter what. No gilded lies or honeyed truths from you, just plain and simple, blunt and effective honesty. It is a mentality I welcome even more since the dark times began."_

 _Garro said nothing. The serfs finished donning the armour onto the primarch's frame and stepped away into the shadows. The magos circled the primarch a final time to ensure all systems were installed and segments bolted on correctly. The Martian tech-priest bowed and retired. Mortarion walked to the weapon's rack where_ Perseverance _lay, ready to wield once again but the primarch did not seize it, merely looked at the Emperor-crafted weapon and spoke to Garro without turning._

 _"I understand failure," Mortarion whispered, just loud enough for Garro to hear. "I understand what failure can do to one's self. I failed on the mountain side… but my father, my true father, gave me a second chance, a chance to redeem myself. And so I did." The primarch turned slightly to eye Garro from his peripheral. "Today marks our day of redemption. From the bitterness of failure to the gratification of redemption we strike. My failure with my sons will be corrected, starting today. We are the Death Guard and we shall make them dread us!" Mortarion grabbed_ Perseverance _and walked to Garro, torn cape flowing behind him._

 _"To war, my son, to war! If we are to die today then they shall remember us and quiver with fear for the next ten thousand years!"_

* * *

The Death Guard attacked the Black Legion in what would be known as the Third Battle of Yarant, knowing this would be the final nail in their coffin but unflinchingly did so, not considering retreat or their own safety, intent only on taking as many traitors as possible. For days the Death Guard fought, securing some void-space in Yarant high orbit, allowing the bulk of the Legion to assault Faylech's command centre, overrunning the entrenched enemy through determination and ferocity alone. But no matter the fierceness with which they fought nor that they had a primarch on their side, the traitors were simply too much. They became encircled, cut off from one another and slowly whittled away. The Death Guard would have died that day, a noble death but a permanent one. However, by the grace of the Emperor, help arrived.

Vulkan and seven thousand of his Salamanders arrived, quickly relieving the Death Guard, reinforcing their positions and striking towards Faylech and his command post. The Nocturnean and Barbaran Astartes displayed commendable cooperation, killing Black Legion Space Marines in their hundreds and their mortal Army allies in their tens of thousands.

While Vulkan maintained the loyalist positions, preventing Faylech from being reinforced, the Death Lord hunted down his traitorous son. Mortarion cornered Faylech and killed him, the battle over in seconds. With Faylech's death, the Black Legion was temporarily leaderless and morale had plummeted. The traitors began to flee, butchered by loyalist warships as they attempted to flee. Only the Endurance and its battlegroup were able to withdraw effectively, nearing a Mandeville point when something unexpected happened.

* * *

 _They had been awoken four days ago. He had told C04T to wake them when they were needed and the machine-spirit had listened. It had taken seven years but the time had finally come. Jue shrugged beneath the heavy black cloak he wore over his armour, a simple yet effective disguise. Many other Black Legion traitors wore such attire and as a result few questioned the two disguised Deathshroud as they made their way through the_ Endurance _._

 _Jue was saddened to see the grand vessel so corrupted. Veins and arteries covered the walls, pulsing with yellowish-black liquid coursing through them. C04T, once of the Deathshroud but who had been given a temporary hold placed on his second death, had given them brief data-packets that had filled in some holes but not all. Jue had gone into cryo-sleep during a time of treachery and murder and had awoken in a nightmare of corrupted flesh and putrid smells. He knew Hekl, his mortis-brother who treaded beside him down another corridor that only madmen could have imagined, felt the same._

 _Between them they carried a large crate, its contents fragile and hyper-lethal. They moved carefully through the Gloriana-class battleship's underbelly. The mortal crewmen bowed as they passed, not daring to question. The two mortis-brothers noted many of the crew had been either bloated with sickness or shriven to near-death, stricken with disease. Fleas, cockroaches, and of course rats were everywhere, more so than would be typical on a voidship._

 _They knew of the battle that raged in the Yarant System and knew the_ Endurance _, alongside its crew and contingent of four hundred Heretic Astartes, fled from the Death Lord's vengeful justice. Both mortis-brothers knew that the_ Endurance _could not get away. The Space Marines aboard alone could conquer star systems, and supplied with so powerful a warship could see entire sub-sectors drown in their own blood. And with that knowledge, they had broken into a secured containment chamber and took its contents with them, contents that now resided in the crate._

 _After nearly an hour of walking they reached their destination: the principal air scrubber generator. Air was purified here, carbon dioxide pulled out and oxygen fit for mortals pumped back into the ship. A necessary function of any void-faring vessel, and it would suit their purposes satisfactorily._

 _"Lords, may I assist you?" asked the operational supervisor, a woman dirtied with soot and stank of unwashed flesh. She was rail thin, a lack of nourishment had even robbed her of her breasts. A green-yellow boil dotted her chin. She was miserable looking, exhausted, and terrified. Jue hesitated as she approached. Was she still loyal to the primarch and Emperor? Could she have remained free of the pervasive taint? He hoped but it lasted but a moment. This was not a time for hope. Any help she may have given was outweighed by the complications that might have arisen. Instead of speaking, Jue lifted his bolt pistol and fired into her chest in one smooth motion, the bolt detonating on impact. Viscera, bones, clothing and hair covered him before he took aim and killed another who might have still been a Throne-loyalist. Hekl followed suit, firing until the operations shift had been slaughtered to the last, their deaths at least quick._

 _Hefting the crate to the primary generator, they unboxed what was inside: a capsule-core of a Life-Eater Virus bomb. They carefully slotted into the receiver, making sure not to break the glass, not until it was sealed in to allow the Virus to easily spread throughout the ship. Sealing it in, they slotted a data-slate housing C04T into the nearby central cogitator, allowing the machine-spirit to override any containment protocols and safety mechanisms. It took time, the Death Guard had always been careful with poisonous substances, knowing how to use and counter them effectively. After half an hour, the machine-spirit spoke._

 _"Counter-measures disabled, Life-Eater Virus ready for dissemination."_

 _Jue and Hekl looked at one another. Both discarded their black robes, standing proudly in their ivory and green armour, their manreapers held proudly. The Legion sigil motif and Imperial Aquila on their persons shined and polished. Hekl extended his arm and Jue grasped it._

 _"It has been an honour, brother."_

 _"That it has, old friend, that it has."_

 _"C04T," Jue said, "release the Virus."_

 _"Acknowledged."_

 _The two mortis-brothers heard the glass canister break and the air scrubbers shaking, spreading the volatile contents through the ship. Even a wisp of it would kill an ogryn. It would only take minutes for it to spread enough to cripple the ship, its command crew killed. As the Virus-laden air began to seep into the scrubbing chamber, both of them taking off their helms and taking deep breaths, proclaiming as their bodies began to fail and their skin melted as it broke down on a molecular level, "Only in death does duty end!"_

* * *

Just prior to escaping through a Mandeville point, the _Endurance_ suddenly drifted from its course, its data-link with its flotilla lost, throwing their interlocked defence systems into disarray. Panicked vox-calls were despatched to the flagship but none were returned, those that would have responded having become nothing more than biological sludge. The Salamander and Death Guard warships took full advantage of the enemy's confusion, destroying dozens of warships before the scant few score traitor vessels fled into the warp. The _Endurance_ , its hull showing the visible corruption heaped upon it by Nurgle's touch, was destroyed as the threat of physical and spiritual taint was simply too great.

The Third Battle of Yarant ended decisively in favour of the loyalists but this quickly proved hollow as sorrowful news of Rogal Dorn's death and the Emperor placed permanently onto the Golden Throne reached the Salamander-Death Guard force. The XIV and XVIII arrived to Terra several days after the Siege had concluded and found a star system scarred by furious battle. Thousands of ship-hulks drifted throughout Sol, Terra' orbit heavily littered with debris, while the Throneworld itself was a world that had suffered ninety-five days of the most destructive siege waged in human history. Mortarion, feeling guilty that he had not been there when the Emperor needed him most, became adamant that to repent for his perceived failures he would take the fight to the traitors and recover all that had been lost.

* * *

 **Age of Repentance-**

During the Year of Intermission the Death Guard were reinforced with six hundred legionnaires from Barbarus, brought to them by Master of Ordnance Durak Rask. Rask, who had been tasked with garrisoning Barbarus at the civil war's outbreak, brought most of the garrison, leaving the Legion homeworld protected by a veteran battle-company and hundreds of new Aspirants. Mortarion's depleted Death Guard had been brought up to a strength of just over two thousand. Though willingly to enter into the most horrendous of warzones, their small size and lack of heavy equipment and vehicles prevented them from undertaking campaigns alone. Thus the Death Lord seconded his Legion to that of the Sons of Horus. When the Great Scouring commenced, the Warmaster and the Death Lord fought side-by-side, pushing back the forces of darkness and restoring the Imperium as it once had been.

Despite their limited numbers, the Death Guard fought bravely, particularly during the assault on Chogoris. There, the Fourteenth and Sixteenth Primarchs fought the Great Khan and banished him to the warp, Mortarion's _Perseverance_ delivering the killing blow. After seven more years of war the traitors were rolled back towards the Eye of Terror and the Imperium began to stabilise and recover.

As the Imperial Reformation began in earnest in early M31, the Death Guard largely accepted the dictates laid by the Codex Astartes but due to the heavy casualties the Legion sustained during Fulgrim's Heresy the Death Guard were the only Legion unable to spawn a Successor Chapter in the Second Founding. This would change in the following centuries as the Death Guard replenished its ranks and dozens of Successors were founded.

Mortarion, however, would not see his bloodline flourish. Two centuries after the Heresy, the primarch was hunting a Dark Eldar raiding force near the Orpheus Sector, commanded by Archon Arhra, founder of the elite Incubi warriors. The primarch led a boarding party aboard the Archon's flagship, intent on killing the xenos warlord but before the warship could be secured it fled into the Webway. It has been over ten thousand years since that day and many within the Imperium believe Mortarion is dead lest why would he not re-establish contact. Some within the Chapter believe that their gene-sire still lives and wanders the Webway but a majority do not, believing it to be a hollow hope.

The Dark Millennium is in its final phase, and prophets and gods herald the End Times. As the Imperium fights ten thousand battles across a thousand fronts, many who dare to believe in hope fervently pray that the Lord of Death would return and save the Imperium from the brink of destruction.

* * *

 **Organisation-**

Since Mortarion assumed command of the Death Guard, the Legion and then later Chapter has always been divided into seven Great Companies of varying size. Furthermore these Great Companies were broken down into more flexible battle-companies that numbered one hundred to two hundred Space Marines.

The Death Guard field a larger number of Devastator units than is proscribed in the Codex Astartes, one of their many deviations from Guilliman's magnum opus. These Devastators are called Grave Wardens and are unique in that they wear Terminator armour and make extensive use of alchemical and radiation based weapons such as Phosphex grenades, rad-missiles, the flesh-eating Vastogox virus, and Cullegene gas. These are fired with Astartes grenade launchers and occasionally deployed on the battlefield via Death Cloud Projection units.

As would be expected the Death Guard use Chaplains extensively, ever wary of corruption within their ranks and wishing to prevent more from following the path of Calas Typhon. In this they have been largely successful. The Death Guard and its gene-line since the Heresy have sported one of the lowest corruption rates in all the Adeptus Astartes. Due to their poor relationship with the Mechanicum, the Chapter has very few Techmarines, typically only a handful per Great Company. Unsurprisingly the Death Guard have very few Librarians due to their historical distrust of psykers and their primogenitor's distrust to embrace them. Typhon the Black revealed to being a psyker during the Dropsite Massacre has caused even more hesitance. This has caused every Librarian, of which there are no more than a score at any one time, to be accompanied by two Chaplains each. They are to act as his protectors during battle but more specifically to watch for any sign of taint or treachery and if detected they are expected to deal with the matter in the form of a summary execution.

The Deathshroud, Mortarion's bodyguard, have endured their primarch's absence, retaining the same traditions and recruitment as they had since their inception, with only the Chapter Master, the High Chaplain and the Deathshroud themselves knowing their mortis-brothers true identities. Since the Betrayer of Barbarus, the Death Guard has discontinued the position of First Captain, combining its responsibilities and duties with that of Commander.

Though the Death Guard have evolved from being an almost exclusively anti-xenos force to a more multi-purpose role, they are still renowned xenos-killers. This can be seen in the higher than average number of Barbaran Space Marines that serve a tour with the Ordo Xenos' Deathwatch unit. These Astartes gain great knowledge and experience with the Deathwatch and bring what they have learned to their battle-brothers to further refine and enhance their lethality against the myriad of hostile alien species.

* * *

 **Combat Doctrine-**

While some like the Iron Warriors, Imperial Fists, and their Successors fortified and garrisoned large swathes of the Emperor's Realm, the Death Guard have long preferred to act as a form of rapid reaction force, deploying to warzones across the galaxy where Imperial forces were on the verge of defeat. Furthermore the Chapter has extensively contributed forces towards thousands of Imperial Crusades, from the Dolkorra Scouring to the Macharian Crusade and more.

 _Aexe Cardinal was hell. There was no doubt about that, the veteran officer thought. He looked through his magnoculars, noting the Shadik trench-lines. They were impressive, kilometre upon kilometre of barbed wire, machinegun nests, fortified bunkers, and short-range artillery batteries. Soon his men and women would be ordered to charge across No Man's Land and attack an entrenched enemy who had resisted such assaults for forty years. It would be a waste of their talents. The officer looked over as a company of Aexegarian infantry marched down to the primary trench line to relieve their comrades. It would be another day of the same outdated tactics that saw to the deaths of millions._

 _"Sir," he adjutant said, keying his vox-caster to receive a better signal. The officer moved to his dark haired adjutant who held out the vox-mic to him. "Command is on the horn," he explained. The officer took the proffered vox-mic._

 _"Colonel-Commissar Gaunt here, over."_

 _"Ibram," came General Barthol Van Voytz's voice. The man sounded excited, relieved._

 _"Sir?"_

 _"Do you have any scouts in the NML?"_

 _"Yes, sir," Gaunt said, confused as to why Van Voytz asked. Gaunt was going to supply an updated intelligence report to Command when Mkoll and Mkvenner returned._

 _"Bring them back to the trenches, Ibram."_

 _Gaunt's annoyance flared. "Sir, without my scouts I am blind to the enemy's movements, I need them-"_

 _"That's not it at all, Ibram! No interference from the Alliance. This is to protect them. There has been a new development. Withdraw your scouts back immediately. You'll see why soon. Van Voytz, out."_

 _Gaunt handed the vox-mic back to Beltayn._

 _"Something wrong, sir?"_

 _"Something's awry," he said dead-pan, Beltayn smiling despite himself. "Order the scouts back, double-time."_

 _"Yes, sir." Gaunt returned to his observation post, watching for whatever it was Van Voytz was talking about. A half-hour passed and Mkoll appeared at his side._

 _"What changed?"_

 _"I have no idea, Oan. No fething idea." The two men looked over the battlefield, the scarred earth pockmarked by foxholes and covered in the corpses and bones of hundreds of thousands._

 _It took an hour but eventually Gaunt saw what Van Voytz meant. Mkoll whistled. "I had no idea they were on-world."_

 _"Neither did I," Gaunt admitted, watching over a hundred Space Marines of the vaunted Death Guard take up positions in the secondary trench. Another hour passed and tens of thousands more Alliance infantry took up positions for an assault. "Rally the men, Bel, tell them to ready for a charge. Tell them… tell them the Emperor and the spirit of Barbarus is with us today."_

 _Twenty minutes later the Alliance lines opened up with a short but fierce barrage, fyceline smoke from the big guns temporarily obstructing the trenches. By the time it cleared, the Astartes were gone. Across No Man's Land the deep roar of bolter fire could be heard and the screaming of Shadik soldiers._

 _Gaunt and his men watched it happen, waiting for the tertiary trench to advance. When the whistle came, Gaunt was ready._

 _"Tanith First-and-Only, advance!"_

* * *

For centuries the Death Guard crusaded across the galaxy, not too dissimilar from their Black Templar cousins, endlessly patrolling Imperial space and eliminating threats both minor and significant. Periodically the Death Guard would initiate a Penitence Crusade, a self-imposed penance to redeem themselves in the Emperor's eyes. The entire Chapter partakes and these Crusades have conquered vast swathes of the galaxy, adding evermore to the Imperium of Man. The Death Guard are a fearsome foe and a dependable ally, their vaunted mass infantry assaults and Barbaran endurance a legend to the Imperial masses. The Chapter does field a small cohort of armoured vehicles and battle-tanks but act more in support of the infantry rather than the reverse. This doctrine originates from the original mortal Death Guard fighting in Barbaras' mountainous terrain which favoured infantry over vehicular warfare.

* * *

 **Recruitment-**

Despite the limitations this brought in terms of raw manpower, the XIV only ever recruited from Barbarus during the Great Crusade. This has not changed in the following centuries as Death Guard Apothecaries carefully monitor the populace from the Chapter's mountain-fortresses and fortress-monastery, selecting the most hardy and resilient male youth to be made into a son of Mortarion. Each and every Aspirant of the Chapter is forced to undergo the Trials of Fortitude where physical and psychological strengths are pushed to their limits. Those that pass become battle-brothers while those that fail adorn the Trial grounds with their corpses, a sign warning the next generation of the price of failure.

* * *

 **Homeworld-**

Barbarus is a deadly world, almost inhospitable to human life. Vast, impenetrable mountain ranges dominate the land, covered in toxic fog where only augmented humans and transhuman warriors can survive in.

Barbarus has long gained access to Imperial technology, including better rebreather, hab-domes and modern medical care, but these are kept to a minimalist degree as the Death Guard favour strong warriors and only care for their population enough to allow it to survive and thrive in terms of numbers. The average Barbaran is a sallow and thin, with a haunted look about them, but this underlines their deep well of resolve and natural resistance to toxins and poisons. Though they may appear frail, Barbaran men and women are undoubtedly strong in spirit and body, ever ready to fight for the Emperor and His Imperium. Aside from several PDF regiments, Barbarus does not recruit Imperial Guard regiments from its limited gene-pool, preferring to fight alongside Guard regiments in the prosecution of war amongst the stars.

An interesting and venerable monument, the Wall of Memory resides at the base of the Warlord's mountain, sporting the name of every Death Guard Astartes from the Great Crusade all the way up to the 41st Millennium. As would be expected, the Wall is a kilometre high and stretches for seven kilometres, the names of fallen battle-brothers las-etched onto the black Stygian steel.

* * *

 **Beliefs-**

The Death Guard believe in self-reliance and the never-ending pursuit of overcoming hardships. The Chapter has long acknowledged that they are not the protectors of humanity in the same vein as the Iron Warriors or Imperial Fists, nor the governing hand of the Ultramarines. They are the destroyers, the bane of Mankind's inherent dark potential and its many foreign foes. Many Chapters are welcomed across the width-and-breadth of the Imperium's million plus worlds, but the Death Guard are foreboding for they herald only despair and death.

The First Founding Chapter has long had a contentious relationship with the Mechanicum since the earliest days of the Great Crusade. These poor relations only grew worse upon Mortarion's discovery for the Death Lord forbade the Martian tech-priests from pillaging Barbarus' hoard of xenos technology, something the Mechanicum did not take kindly too. Mortarion preferred to reverse-engineer many of their weapons for use by his sons and himself, notably his personal sidearm The Lantern. Furthermore, during the Great Crusade the Forge World of BuDonn had fallen into crisis as the world was wracked with mass revolt. The Death Guard were the closest Imperial force to respond and by the time Mars had despatched a fleet composed of Skitarii, Knights, and Titans to quell the insurrection, BuDonn's serf and working class had been thoroughly depopulated by the XIV, its rebellious elements slayed to the last. This outraged the Mechanicum as it prevented BuDonn from reaching production quotas for nearly three decades as the planet had to be recolonised and staffed with loyalists. The Fulgrimian Heresy and Vulkan's subsequent regency over Mars was unable to overturn the bad blood between the two. Despite this, the Forge World of Kastar does supply the Death Guard Chapter with munitions, weapons, and an assortment of combat vehicles, including battle-tanks, as well as act as a secondary void-port for the Chapter warfleet. This is due to the defence of the Forge World during the Heresy's latter stages from an Iron Hand invasion that has forged bonds of friendship between Barbarus and Kastar. This friendly nature has caused nearly the entirety of the Mechanicum to disavow Kastar, imposing strict sanctions and cutting off trade and resources as repercussions. These severely damaged Kastar's economy and infrastructure but in time the alliance with the Death Lord and his sons have gone a long way in negating the worst of the sanctions.

Relations with mortal forces are complex. During the Crusade, the Death Guard despised fighting alongside Army warships or infantry regiments, seeing them as nothing more than useless cannon fodder. This point-of-view underwent a significant alteration during the Heresy as the Death Guard's dangerously low numbers forced it to depend on mortal auxiliaries more and more. The opinion of non-Astartes greatly improved following the Third Battle of Yarant, where Imperial Army crewmen and soldiers fought valiantly alongside their legionnaire commanders, despite the possibility of total annihilation at the hand of the Black Legion. Since that time the Death Guard freely fight beside and support Guard regiments, establishing close ties with several, most notably the entirety of the Death Korps of Krieg whose ancient rebellion had been put down with the assistance of Barbaran Space Marines. The Death Guard, understanding of what internal strife and the betrayal of their own can do to one's psyche and perception, fully supports the Death Korps in their fatalistic duty in pursuit of atonement, and the men and women of Krieg have become the de facto Guard regiments seconded to the sons of Barbarus, being recorded as fighting alongside the Death Guard in hundreds of campaigns.

* * *

 **Gene-seed-**

In spite of their typical gaunt and ashen appearance, the gene-seed of the Death Guard has always been considered pure by genetic screenings, an echo of their gene-sire. Most of the Imperium attributes Typhon's fall to Chaos as a singular event and his corruption of a third of the XIV being due to his patience, guile, and ruthlessness. But there are some, especially in some circles of the Ordo Hereticus and Ordo Malleus, who believe the corruption may have begun at a genetic level or that Mortarion's bloodline was more vulnerable to Chaos taint, despite all the evidence and blessedly low numbers of traitors that have originated from the Death Guard and its Successors since the Great Heresy.

* * *

 **Battlecry-**

It has been recorded that the Death Guard use battle-cries, most notably "For Mortarion and the Emperor," though they traditionally fight on in silence. The most notable exception is that battle-cry, "Death to Typhon! Death to the Betrayers!" when confronting the Black Legion.

 _The cage was his world. He had tried to escape many times but the bars were made of a metal not even he could break. The few times he had managed to rid himself of his jailers, killing scores every time, they always hunted him down in their dark city and locked him away again, ever eager to conduct horrid experiments and tortures on his flesh and soul. His body remained strong, beaten and malnourished though it was. But his soul, his will... that neared breaking._

 _How long had he been there? How long had the other-kind skinned, burned, peeled back, and cut on him? How long, how long, how long..._

 _He... he did not know... and that terrified him. He could have been here for hours or an eternity. The endless suffering made everything blend together._

 _The door to his prison opened, its creaking heralding the arrival of pain. He looked down, too weary to even give defiance. He had been defiant so long, had tried so hard... perhaps... perhaps it was time to die, to close his eyes and let darkness consume him. Only then would the pain end._

 _No. No! He was better than that. He would face his captors, eye them as they carried out their sadistic ministrations. Taking a deep breath, feeling the lack of his rebreather less so than usual, the prisoner stared up._

 _A figure in armour stood before him. At first, he thought it was the mad-genius son of his brother. But... but it wasn't. The colours were different, black livery but not like the Betrayer and his followers, the figure before him was larger, proud and a natural commander. He sported a shaved tanned face rather than the thinning white hair of the pale Spider. The being in front of him was so much like the prisoner yet so different. A wolf pelt covered the shoulders, a blazing Eye of Terra protruded from his chestplate. And finally a weapon that had inspired legends and helped save the Imperium from the brink of collapse. It was a Talon, the Talon, a weapon of only one demigod. A name teased itself out from the prisoner's mind._

 _"Horus."_

 _Horus Lupercal smiled, radiant and full of warmth and friendship._

 _"Mortarion." The sealed lock, ever unable to be picked by him, was shredded open by a forceful swing of the Talon. The gate creaked open. "I have searched for you for a long time, my friend." Horus extended his hand and Mortarion stared at it, relief and hope swelling within him. "Come, brother, it is time we went home."_


End file.
